


The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Ian Gallagher

by Shamelessquestions (KagekitsuneXXX)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Abuse, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Drug Use, Dysphoria, Explicit Sexual Content, Family, Gun Violence, Light Bondage, Love Triangles, M/M, Masturbation, May/December Relationship, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Phone Sex, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sexual Harassment, Slow Burn, Slurs, Spanking, Trans Female Character, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, erotic asphyxiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 309,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2957270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KagekitsuneXXX/pseuds/Shamelessquestions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's fuck all about heat or chemistry or any such shit, Gallagher. You and me...it's just a thing that cannot happen. The sooner we both accept that, the better off we'll be."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Curtis met Sally

**Author's Note:**

> Gallavich Mob AU--tags will be updated as the story proceeds. All thoughts and comments are welcome.

“Guy in the booth, green shirt, wants a dance.”

Ian hadn’t been off the stage for thirty seconds yet when Roger approached him, nodding at a tall, heavyset man tucked away in one of the nearby corner booths. Ian made eye-contact and the man immediately twitched, his hand flying up to nervously smooth his thinning hair before he tugged at his shirt. Ian smirked a little and started moving forward, gliding through the crowd with seemingly effortless ease. It wasn’t effortless; it was a thing Ian worked hard on—moving smoothly, making it seem as if the crowds parted just for him—he wanted to emanate quiet confidence and control within the chaos. It achieved its desired effect, and the man was left gaping as Ian came to stand before him.

“Hi, I’m Curtis,” Ian kept swaying in time with the music and his smirk hitched a little higher. The man was staring at him as if he was some sort of god.

“Salvatore Boerio, Sal…My name is Sal. You can call me Sal,” the man croaked and wiped his hands on his pants.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sal,” Ian purred and then got down to business, “twenty-five bucks gets you a dance,” the man was already nodding and reaching for his wallet before Ian could even finish, “but, uh, one-fifty gets you the champagne room and a lot more privacy.”

It was a no-brainer; Ian rarely saw one hundred and fifty dollars produced so quickly. He cocked his hip, motioning to Sal to put it into the waistband of his shorts, and almost snickered at the reverent, shaky way Sal slipped him the cash. He watched the older man struggle to his feet and Ian narrowed his eyes in assessment. Sal was older—Ian pegged him as being in his early to mid sixties—but he was tall, almost Ian’s height, and with a large build. Ian was willing to bet Sal played football in high school, maybe even college, before excess and age softened his body.

Sal had all the hallmarks of a lovestruck puppy patron, but Ian knew from personal experience that was the type that could easily be the most problematic. Sal was a big guy and while Ian knew he could most likely take him if he got handsy, it would probably not be without a major issue. Ian quickly caught Roger’s eye and subtly signalled him and only moved off when Roger nodded back. The security guard trailed behind them as they headed to one of the private rooms. Until they re-emerged, Roger would be standing outside the door listening for any signs of trouble.

The champagne room was little more than a plush couch, low table and carpet, all luridly decorated in shades of red. Ian grabbed Sal by the front of the shirt and gently guided him to the couch and pushed him down. Sal’s breath expelled in a whoosh, excitement and heady arousal causing him to visibly flush even under the red glow of the tinted lights.

“A couple ground rules before we start, Sal,” Ian said before he began his private dance in earnest, “you should know there’s no sex in the champagne room, so my shorts stay on. The touching is one way, meaning I can touch you, but you can’t touch me, unless of course, you don’t want me touching you. I know it’s a little bit of a disappointment, but if we respect each other, we can both have some fun tonight. Is all that okay with you?”

Sal nodded and seemed to brace when Ian finally started the music and approached him. Ian gave Sal another critical once-over. He wasn’t a bad looking guy, Ian decided. He showed his age, certainly, with the thin wisps of a comb over covering his baldness and the laugh lines wrinkling his face. But the short beard was well-groomed, the brown eyes were bright and laser focused on Ian, and Sal radiated expense. His clothes seemed tailor made and the cologne he wore was heady without being overpowering. Ian had fallen for worse, so as far as he was concerned, Salvatore Boerio definitely wasn’t bad at all.

“Having fun?” Ian asked as he straddled Sal and slid down slowly to almost sit in his lap. Sal could only nod, his eyes glazed as his hands twitched at his side. Ian continued trying for light conversation. “So how’s your day going?”

“It hasn’t been the best day,” Sal surprised Ian a little by actually speaking, “but it’s gotten a whole lot fucking better.”

Ian grinned at that and continued his routine, pleased that Sal was following the rules. Before long he was done and he trailed a hand down Sal’s thigh as he readied to leave. “That was fun… Find me again if you ever want another one.”

“How about now?” Sal said hastily, “can’t I get another one now?”

“You can get as many as you want as long as you pay for it,” Ian said and raised an eyebrow as Sal fished out a wad of hundreds from his wallet. “Yeah, okay, let’s have some fun.”

* * *

Alex flicked her compact open and examined her face closely while she waited at the corner. She used a perfectly manicured nail to carefully wipe away a stray bit of lipstick, before sighing in mild frustration as she examined her eyebrows. Her inspection was interrupted by some catcalling from the occupants of a black lowrider as it slowed to a halt in front of her.

“Hey baby, qué pasó?” a young man called to her, grinning madly as he hung out the passenger window, “how you doin’?”

Alex sighed and plastered on a brittle smile. She was used to the attention, usually unwanted, and all the unease that always came with it. Now to try and pull off the delicate act of turning this guy down in the hopes that he didn’t do an about face and flip out on her. She gave a slight shake of her head and mumbled a “good, thanks” before deliberately checking her phone, hoping he’d get the hint and leave.

“Damn though, you’re fine as hell,” the young man persisted while the driver snickered at the impending strike-out, “you got a number for me?”

“Sorry, I…I have a boyfriend.”

“So what, that mean you can’t make any friends?” he asked, “just wanna talk to you some more; get to know you a little better, baby.”

The guy seemed determined not to go anywhere and Alex’s anxiety was beginning to spike. Her mind raced, trying to find an acceptable soft answer that would put an end to this standoff. She was about to hazard another rejection when Ian rounded the corner and she sagged with relief.

“Hi sweetie,” she greeted Ian warmly, immediately clinging to his arm and leaning up to kiss his cheek.

“Hey babe,” Ian raised an eyebrow at the waiting young men and there was the sound of disgruntled grumbling before the car peeled off.

“God, just in the nick of time,” Alex sighed, keeping hold of Ian’s hand as they started walking, “he was striking me as the never take no for an answer type.”

“The trials of a hot blonde.”

“Ugh, don’t start. I didn’t see you all weekend. What did I miss?”

Ian shrugged, “not much, although guess who made two grand in under an hour Saturday night?”

Alex was gobsmacked, “two grand?! You made two thousand dollars in an hour?! Oh my god, I need to start shaking my ass for some cash,” she paused and stared at him through narrowed eyes, “it was from shaking your ass, right? Please tell me you weren’t sucking some wrinkly, grey-pubed dick for that money.”

“You make that sound like such a bad thing,” Ian rolled his eyes, “but no, it was strictly come dancing. I met a big spender last night who might be a little in love with me. Kinda cute actually.”

“Over fifty?” Alex asked and grimaced when Ian sighed and nodded, “ew.”

“You seriously need to stop being so judgemental about my preferences.”

“Ugh, I swear to god, Dr. Lester isn’t working fast enough on your daddy issues, Ian,” Alex sighed and gave an irritated toss of her blonde mane, “it kills me every time you settle for one of these boring grandpa types.”

They turned another corner and walked across the large parking lot of the supermarket. They slowed a little; they were early and not in any particular hurry to start their shift.

“I don’t settle; I like what I like,” Ian said firmly, “some people like them tall, some people like blondes, I happen to like older guys. How is this a crime?”

Alex groaned, “bullshit, Ian. You can barely stay awake when you talk about some of these dudes. We have our whole fucking lives to settle for boring, staid relationships. We’re young! It’s supposed to be all about heat and passion and wild fucking; at least in the beginning!” Alex huffed and began dancing around a sceptical looking Ian, “how can you stand it? I want a guy who sets me on fire. Like I’m this close to going up in flames from the way he looks at me. I want…” Alex flailed her arms as she struggled for an appropriate word, “boom!”

“Boom?” Ian sniffed.

“Fucking boom!” Alex confirmed, “We’re twenty-one years old, our love lives should be fucking nuclear.”

“Eh, no thanks,” Ian said, “that kind of thing isn’t for everybody. Take it from me, wild and out of control can be very overrated.”

Alex nodded, getting the implication of what Ian was saying immediately. “Alright, I admit, different strokes for different folks, but I wish you wouldn’t knock it until you’ve at least tried it, you know, the whole desperately in love thing.”

“You shouldn’t knock older guys until you’ve tried them either,” Ian nudged his best friend, “they can be quite educational.”

Alex stuck a finger down her throat and dry-heaved; so much for being open-minded.

* * *

They were neighbouring cashiers on a slow day, so Ian and Alex passed the time chatting and watching the clock in between random customers. Alex flipped open her compact again and examined her face critically.

“Ugh, I seriously need a better pay check. I need proper moisturizers and MAC just unveiled a new line that I need to have.”

“Your skin is perfect, Alexis, you don’t need more cosmetic shit. You need to eat properly and meet your savings quota. You haven’t actually saved anything in months.”

“Maybe I just need a job where I can score two grand in a night and cover all my needs,” she grumbled.

Ian shook his head, “it’s not typical, and you know that’s not the route for you. Still, at least I’ll be able to get financial aid off my ass for the semester. It’s got to be a little bit of a relief knowing your parents have your tuition covered.”

Alex rolled her eyes in disgust, “my parents are fucking fascists who refuse to believe that there might be more pressing issues than a degree right now. Fat lot of good a psych degree is going to do me at the end of four years if I can’t figure my real shit out before then.”

Ian didn’t have a response to that, but he was distracted for the moment by a familiar face. “Holy shit, it’s him!”

“Him who?” Alex’s head snapped up as she peered around the supermarket.

“Him!” Ian hissed, nodding to the large man strolling into the supermarket, “Big Spender!”

Alex’s eyes fastened on him and she could barely hold back a sneer. _“Creep,”_ she thought, a dapper looking creep, but a creep nonetheless. She frowned when the man made eye contact with Ian over her shoulder and smiled shyly at him. She watched, unblinking, as the man grabbed a cart and quickly ducked out of sight. She whipped around to Ian and was horrified by the small smirk she saw on his face. She knew that look; it was his “reel them in” look and Alex was not having it.

“Don’t even think about it! He’s a fucking creepy stalker,” she warned, “fuckers like that shop at Whole Foods in the North side. You think it’s a coincidence he drops two grand on you and then shows up at your day job two days later?!”   

“So he’s resourceful,” Ian was grinning, his eyes fastened on the aisle into which Sal had disappeared, “doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

God, she hated when he got like this. She grabbed the spray bottle from beneath the cash register and squirted him with it.

“What the fuck, Alex!” he hissed at her.

“You are on the cusp of making a terrible decision. I can feel it in my bones.”

He shot her a quelling look and turned his attention to Sal as the older man sauntered up. Alex turned to him as well and pinned him with a saccharine smile.

“Hello, sir,” she addressed him cheerily while Ian shot suspicious daggers at her. “My colleague is manning the ‘ten items or less’ line and you appear to have more than that. Perhaps I can assist you?”

Sal seemed stuck, but Ian intervened quickly and replied to Alex through clenched teeth, “it’s not that much more and it’s a slow day. I’m perfectly willing to help the customer, but thanks, Alexis.”

Alex huffed, tossed her hair and turned her back firmly on them. Let the world burn, see if she cared.

Ian turned his full attention to Sal, smiling sweetly, and indicated that he should start putting his items on the conveyor belt. Sal seemed as nervous and awestruck as he had been at the club and he jerkily tossed the very random assortment of items out of the cart. Ian said nothing as he deftly swiped the items across the sensor while he waited for Sal to make his move.

“You, uh, look kinda familiar,” despite the obvious expense of his clothes and how well put together he was, Sal spoke with a strange thuggish roughness that seemed to contradict his carefully put-together look.

“Let me guess; do I look like an old boyfriend or a new one?” Ian asked. Alex rolled her eyes while Sal chortled.

“Actually, I, uh, met a young man who looked an awful lot like you at a club the other night; only his name was Curtis, not Ian,” Sal said, nodding at Ian’s nametag.

“Fancy that…they say we all have our twins out there. Maybe he’s mine.”

Sal grinned and scratched at his nose, struggling to get some kind of flow going on his part. “I don’t want to seem like some kind of creep or weird guy,” he paused as the young woman behind him was suddenly struck with a coughing fit. When it subsided, he continued, “but I felt like I had to see you again. I, um, spoke with your manager at the club and he was kind enough to give me some information. I don’t usually shop here.”

“Really? You mean you’re not a fan of our store-brand chicken liver?” Ian held up the package to a very surprised Sal before he swiped it, “I’m shocked. Cash or charge?”

Sal was nonplussed before he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. “Charge,” he said and proceeded to make quite the production of getting out his platinum Amex and handing it over to Ian. The younger man didn’t even blink; instead he indicated to Sal to swipe his card while Ian went about packing up his groceries.

“I hope you don’t consider this too forward, or anything, but I was hoping I could maybe take you out some time.”

Ian said nothing, but ripped the receipt out of the register and started to hand it to Sal. Before Sal could accept it, Ian yanked it back, whipped out a pen out of his smock, and jotted down his number. “Give me a call some time…we’ll see how it goes.”

Sal’s grin was immense, and he took the paper with damp hands, nodding dazedly before finally stumbling off. Ian watched him go, smirking slightly to himself before turning around to face a scowling Alex.

“What?!”

“Are you fucking serious? First of all, aren’t you the least bit concerned that your piece of shit manager is selling your information to whatever slime is willing to shake a dollar at him?”

“Martin isn’t like that,” Ian said quickly, “he looks out for us. If he told Sal about me, it’s a recommendation of Sal’s character.”

“Or his wallet,” she shot back, “and ‘Sal,’ really? ‘I hope I’m not being too forward.’ Where the fuck is he taking you, his cotillion? Gross, Ian.”

“Okay seriously, Alex, stop,” Ian sighed, “are you always gonna give me shit for my personal fucking preferences?”

Alex chewed her inner cheek and tried to hold her tongue, knowing full well she had a tendency to become overly critical, but she knew she was right here. She tried to soften her tone.

“This guy though? Are you sure?”

Ian shrugged and it broke her heart a little. “He seems nice and he’s kinda cute; seems like he’d be a really good listener. Why not?”

Alex shook her head, “seriously, Ian…boom.”

* * *

Sal wasn’t playing it cool in the least and by nightfall, he was on the phone with Ian and by the following night, they were on their first date. Sal had a driver, because of course he did, and the scruffy young man dressed the part perfectly, smart driver’s cap included.

“Ian, this is Iggy, one of my boys…Iggy, this is Ian,” Sal made the introductions as he ushered Ian into the back of the town car. Iggy gave Ian a lopsided smile and an awkward half-wave and slammed the car door shut after them.

It was a long drive to the restaurant, but then, Ian had anticipated that. He had done this a hundred times before, accompanying the semi-closeted, older man to some destination beyond the reach of his social circle, thus lessening the fear of getting caught. It was a cosy, but swank Italian place, and the owner left the kitchen to greet Sal warmly and personally escort him to his table. Wine came quickly and Sal, full of what Ian figured was nervous energy, quickly filled their glasses to the brims.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Sal breathed out, “I saw you up there on the stage and, I don’t know, you were mesmerizing. I actually can’t believe you’re here sitting across from me right now.”

Ian took the compliment, basking a little in the frank admiration. He took a measured sip of the wine and regarded Sal thoughtfully over the rim. “So what do you do, Sal?”

Sal let out a short laugh, shrugging a little before gulping his wine, “I’m a glorified mechanic, is what I am. I own a chain of garages that specialize in the restoration and maintenance of classic cars. I’m a great appreciator of beautiful things,” he waggled his eyebrows meaningfully at Ian and refilled his glass.

“That sounds kind of cool actually,” Ian said.

“It is, it is; this business is something else, you know?” Sal chuckled, “a few months back, some sonuvabitch brings in a Model T—a Ford fucking Model T! Mickey, my boy—my chief—he nearly pisses himself he’s so excited…can’t wait to get to work on the fucking thing.”

Ian had to laugh, “sounds like fun.”

“For him,” Sal laughed, “I like to see the beautiful things, but I leave the work to the young and the eager. I just sit on my ass and wait for my money to roll in. But you tell me, what about you? Supermarket in the day, club at night…? What’s all that for?” Sal asked as heaping plates of food made their way to their table. There was a pause in the conversation as the waiter arranged their spread.

“School,” Ian said after the waiter went away, “I just started going to Preston in September. I’m going to be a business major.”

“Beauty and brains, huh?” Sal swallowed and nodded, “that’s fucking impressive. Full-time at school?”

“I’m trying to stay full-time, hence the two jobs.”

“That’s fucking beautiful; that shows ambition and an incredible work ethic,” Sal said, “I wish some of my boys were even half as motivated.”

“You have a lot of boys working for you, huh?” Ian asked, amused.

“Tons,” Sal replied, tongue in cheek, “wouldn’t you if you were in my position?”

Ian couldn’t deny that, “how does your wife feel about it?”

The question caught Sal in mid-gulp and he promptly choked on his wine. Ian watched him coolly as he sputtered and coughed and tried to get himself under control. It was clear that Sal hardly wore his ring, since there was no visible tan line on his finger, but the hard outline of the ring in Sal’s wallet was hard to miss, especially since the man was determined to flash his wealth in front of Ian.

“What makes you think I have a wife?” Sal wheezed, slowly regaining his composure.

“You’re saying you don’t?” Ian rolled his eyes a little, “come on.”

Sal sighed heavily, “I’d hoped to delay that conversation a little. I didn’t want to spook you before you’d even given me a chance.”

“Dishonesty spooks me the fastest,” Ian said bluntly and leaned back in his chair, bracing himself for the litany.

And so it began. “I was born in a different time, Ian…”

Of course he was, and he grew up in a traditional setting and had certain expectations of him. Ian could write that poem by heart; he had heard it and its iterations a million times before. He would probably hear it a million times more before he found someone to settle down with; if he ever found that one. Ian could practically hear Alex screeching at him already.

“…I love my wife, in my own fucked up way, and she loves me. We just can’t make each other happy.”

“Does she know?” Ian asked, tuning back into the conversation.

“Don’t they always?” Sal laughed ruefully, “I don’t know what she figured out first, the sneaking around, or the men, but, uh, she knows. The rules are simple enough, be discreet, be respectful—I live my life, she lives hers, and then put on a show when we have to.”

Ian doubted it was so neatly cut and dried; it rarely ever was, but Ian didn’t dwell on that. He had made a decision. He shoved his plate forward slightly and stared evenly at his date.  “You want to get out of here?”

Sal didn’t hesitate, “more than anything.”

Ian nodded, his whole being slowly settling into his resolution. “Take me somewhere nice, Sal.”

* * *

It was nice, Ian couldn’t deny that. He popped open a bottle of champagne and took a deep swig directly from the bottle as he stared out at the Chicago skyline from the high-rise hotel. He had removed his shoes and socks, and his bare toes dug into the softness of the carpet. Sal came up behind him and rested a hand on the small of his back. Ian took another mouthful of champagne and turned to face him.

“Nice, huh?” Sal asked softly and pressed tentative hands into Ian’s hips.

“It’s alright,” Ian said noncommittally, “I think you can make things a little better for me. How are you going to that, Salvatore?”

Sal stared at him blankly before he finally got the implications of Ian’s words and his steady green gaze. He slowly got to his knees before Ian and unzipped his pants.

“That’s good, Sal; so good,” Ian said automatically as his mind began to wander. He whispered soft instructions to Sal between sips of champagne and glanced out the window to take everything in.

Was he hot for Sal? No, not really; but Ian was never after heat. Despite Alex’s cheerleading for passion and booming and all that shit, Ian found it exhausting and overrated. What he wanted was stability, someone who would pay attention and listen to him; give him support when he needed it without making insane demands on his time and attention. Ian couldn’t much help that all the qualities he sought tended to be encapsulated in older, closeted, married men; it just seemed to shake out that all the time.

Ian didn’t have to be the number one priority in someone’s life, nor did he want to be. He didn’t mind falling in line behind the wife, the kids, the business and all that noise. He just needed to know where he stood and the expectations that came with it. Alex could call it pathetic and settling, but it was what he craved and what made him happy. If there was anything better than Salvatore Boerio and his ilk, Ian Gallagher had yet to meet it.


	2. Unnecessary Roughness

Ian stared at the ceiling and patiently waited for the sun to come up. Sal was out cold, asleep next to him with one arm slung across Ian’s stomach. He listened to the steady snoring, growing increasingly antsy as the time slowly ticked by. Once the room adequately brightened in the early morning hours, he slipped out of Sal’s grasp and started gathering his clothes. Despite his best efforts of stealth and silence, Sal still snorted awake and blinked at him blearily.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” Ian apologised as he pulled on his pants.

“Where the fuck you going so early?” Sal grumbled and rubbed his face, “where’s the fire?”

“I have school later and I usually do my early morning jog…I have a whole routine, you know?” Ian said, slipping on his shirt and buttoning up, never pausing in his quest to leave. “Go back to sleep; I can make my way home.”

“You can make your way home, huh? What the fuck you take me for?” Sal groused, making Ian smile, “Jesus, you think I’m going to give you some change for the bus and kick you out? I thought you’d be hanging around here today.”

“Sorry…”

Sal waved him off and grabbed his phone off the night table. “Ah, it’s fine; you have your ‘whole routine’. Hold your horses for a second; let me at least get one of my boys.”

* * *

Within a matter of minutes, he had bid Sal goodbye with a peck on the cheek and was greeting a surprisingly awake-looking Iggy outside the hotel. Ian shivered a bit in the crisp air of the fall morning, and smiled apologetically at Iggy.

“Sorry that you had to come out so early.”

Iggy snorted dismissively and went to open the rear passenger door. “This is the least, man; don’t even worry about it.”

Ian looked uncomfortably at Iggy holding the car door open. “Can’t I just ride upfront with you? This is a little weird.”

Iggy blinked in surprise and shrugged before slamming the door shut and making his way to the driver’s seat. He tugged at his jacket and tie, scruffy and rumpled in his slightly ill-fitting suit in a way that Ian imagined must drive Sal to distraction. Ian slipped into the passenger seat and Iggy peeled off, leaving smoke and the smell of burning rubber behind them.

“I can’t believe it’s so fucking cold already,” Ian said, “autumn just started.”

“Yeah,” Iggy mumbled, unused to any of Sal’s romantic interests engaging him on any level. Then again, this new guy was a horse of an entirely different colour. Iggy gave Ian sidelong glances, eager to say something but first trying to gauge how Ian might react. He eventually made an attempt. “So you’re Sal’s new side piece, huh?”

Tact was not Iggy’s strong point. Fortunately, Ian only snickered.

“Yeah, I guess? I’ve never been called a side piece before, but I guess that’s what I am.”

Iggy snorted his agreement, relaxing a little in Ian’s company. “It’s not a bad gig if you think about it. You keep Sal happy, he keeps you happy. Just weird, you know? You aren’t his normal type.”

“Yeah? What’s the norm?”

Iggy stuck a straw in his mouth and scratched at his face while he tried to process an answer, his eyes never leaving the road. “Fuck, I don’t know. Older? His age and shit? Last piece was one of those drag queen types, but low key, you know? Looked like some regular shmuck until he put all that make-up shit on. Mickey called him Victor/Victoria. Prissy, but he was kinda alright.”

“What happened to him?”

“Got dumped for your ass,” Iggy grinned widely at Ian and looked him up and down. “Can’t say he was too happy about it, but, uh, the kiss-off was sweet at least.” Iggy knew he was probably talking too much, but he couldn’t help but automatically like this new one, who was a contemporary, but also didn’t treat Iggy as if he was a piece of Sal’s furniture. “Like I said, just keep him happy and it’ll pay off in the end.”

Ian only nodded, well aware of the assumptions made about him. If he told Iggy that it was about something more than money, he would be met with nothing but disbelief and derision. So he left it alone and accepted it. Besides, there was an expiration date on all these relationships, and if he could get some nice things and be a little better off when it all inevitably went to shit, then all the better. He even felt a little envious of Victor/Victoria. Before either man could make further conversation, Iggy’s phone rang and the hands-free set up announced that Joey was calling.

“You’re on speaker,” Iggy warned immediately, “what the fuck are you doing up so early?”

“I need to head into Canada for a minute,” Joey Milkovich crackled across the line, “gotta take care of something and I need an early start.”

Iggy started snickering, knowing exactly what his brother was up to. “You and these internet bitches. All the way to fucking Canada for some tail? I’ve been told Eskimo pussy is mighty cold.”

“Eskimos are in Alaska, you fucking moron,” Joey snapped and clearly those were fighting words.

“Fucking moron says what? Eskimos are in Canada too, jackass!” Iggy, in his affronted indignation, managed to snap out of his stoned drawl for the moment.

“…they are?” Joey asked uncertainly, and an air of genuine confusion settled between the brothers. Ian had to bite his tongue and look out the window to keep from laughing. “Anyway, you think Mickey will be pissed if I borrowed the ‘Stang?”

Iggy stared at his phone in disbelief. “ _His_ mustang? Don’t even ask that shit, man. If you’re going to take it, take it, but don’t ask that shit or get me involved. I’m not about to catch an ass-kicking for your dumb ass. There are like a dozen other cars you can use.”

“The ‘Stang is cool though,” Joey whined, “I’d look cool. I want to make a good impression here.”

“Well take pictures so you can remember how cool you looked after Mickey puts you in a wheelchair. You touch one of his cars and he’s going to know,” Iggy warned and abruptly cut the call off when Joey began to protest.

“Territorial about his cars, huh?” Ian asked after Iggy hung up.

“Who, Mick? You don’t even know, man,” Iggy sighed, “you even slightly fuck up something he loves and he goes beast mode. He has no chill whatsoever.”

“Sounds charming,” Ian muttered, but his sarcasm was lost on Iggy.

* * *

“What’s your line up today?” Ian asked Alex after they met up under the massive oak tree at the front of their campus.

“Abnormal psyche over at the M building, Interpersonal communication and then Lit.”

“Okay, so we’ll meet up in Lit then,” Ian nodded, “you’ll get there first, so save me a seat.”

Alex eyed him expectantly, “we have a few minutes; you’re not going to tell me about the sagging man meat?”

Ian rolled his eyes before shooting her a warning look, “Allie…”

“Just asking!”

Ian hoisted his backpack and starting ambling towards class, Alex following doggedly at his heels. “What do you want me to say? He was nice; it was nice. We went to an Italian place, talked a while, went to hotel afterwards,” Ian trailed off, shrugging listlessly.

“Oh, be still my heart,” Alex said, “please curb your enthusiasm.”

“Look he’s a nice guy, he’s sweet, but it’s early days and there’s not much to tell yet. Alright?” Ian changed the topic quickly, “you talked to Mr. Simpson yesterday? Any luck?”

Alex’s face immediately clouded, “nothing. I made my case again about the bathroom situation and he shut me down. Then I tried to talk about how Kevin, Nate and the rest of the asshole patrol keep messing with me. He said ‘boys will be boys’ and it sounded like a little teasing, and I should perhaps try to not be so sensitive.”

“Fucking asshole,” Ian grumbled, “there’s got to be something else we can do.”

“I don’t want to rock the boat too hard. I seriously need this job until I can find something that doesn’t turn me into a fucking ball of anxiety at the end of the day.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s so fucking gross you have to deal with this shit. Kevin’s only doing this shit because he wants to fuck you and doesn’t know how to deal,” Ian grabbed Alex and hugged her close, “we’ll figure something out. Until then, just stick with me and keep avoiding those morons.”

Alex nodded and hugged him close for the moment, craving the safe contact. Sometimes she felt he was the only thing keeping her sane. Dr. Lester would probably have a few choice words to say about that.

* * *

Ian was at home working on his crunches when his phone rang. He knew immediately that it was Sal. He was the only person who actually called as opposed to texting. They were three weeks into their relationship and Ian was developing a genuine fondness for him. The man was doting and generous, and hadn’t stopped trying to impress. He listened, although Ian couldn’t say how much actually registered, and conversely, was pretty easy to please. Ian figured he could do a whole lot worse.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Sal greeted warmly, “what are you doing?”

“Working out.”

“As always,” Sal teased, “takes that much work to have a body like that, huh? I’m never going to be Mr. America.”

Ian picked up the odd inflection in Sal’s voice as he spoke. The man sounded strained and tired. “Is everything okay?”

“I just had a business meeting. Sometimes my investors give me fucking agita. I’m in need of some pleasant distraction,” Sal said, “can I pick you up in about a half hour?”

“Sure.”

* * *

By the time Ian got downstairs, the town car was parked outside and Iggy and Igor were standing outside the car, having a smoke. Ian tried to stop labelling Tony as Igor, because it really wasn’t fair to him. So far, Ian had met four Milkovich brothers and they seemed to come in two distinct sets: first were Jaime and Tony, two physically imposing specimens that were terrifying to behold.

Sal explained their presence by telling Ian that every successful business man needs at least a couple of heavies around, for safety purposes. While Jaime would grunt at Ian occasionally and not much else, Tony engaged him easily enough, though it was usually to try and take the piss out of him for some reason or another. Jaime and Tony followed Sal’s lead, dressing their larger frames in tailored suits that only made them all the more intimidating. Iggy and Joey were the second, younger set. They were rough and tumble and looked it, standing in untidy contrast to their big brothers. They were chattier and far less successful at putting the fear of God into Ian. 

“Yo, Ian, help settle this shit,” Iggy called to him as he approached, “Alice in Wonderland, right? That shit was about drugs mostly, right?”

“Yeah, that’s one popular theory.”

Iggy grinned triumphantly and whirled on his sneering brother, “fuck, I told you! Give me my money!”

“What, just because he goes to college, you think he knows everything?” Tony said and opened the back door to let Ian in next to Sal.

“About this he does! Pay up.”

Sal shook his head as Ian settled in next to him. “You see the shit I have to put up with; dealing with these knuckleheads?”

The two brothers went on squabbling in the front of the car and Ian grinned at his long suffering boyfriend. Sal kissed Ian’s hand and pulled him closer.

“What’s going on today?” Ian asked, “you’re kinda out of it.”

“These meetings…they always leave me a little unhappy. There are people there for whom I have the utmost respect, but never see it fit to return that respect for one reason or another. To know that you can spend your life putting in the work, but yet at the end of the day…ah,” Sal grunted with disgust but refused to say anything further. Instead he turned to Ian and smiled softly at him, “what can you do to cheer an old man up?”

Ian could only guess what Sal was hoping for, but he directed Iggy to head down to the water front. It took some urging, but he convinced Sal to take off his shoes and socks so they could walk together on the deserted beach. He left Sal for a few minutes and ran off to one of the small food kiosks dotting the shore and promptly returned with a carton of cherry cheesecake bites.

“You’ve got to try these,” Ian waved a piece of the confection in Sal’s face, “you’ll love it.”

“Ah,” Sal groused and waved it away.

“It’s impossible to eat one of these and not feel better. I promise,” Ian tempted him further, and when Sal protested further, Ian raised an authoritative eyebrow at him, “Sal? Sal…”

Sal huffed a little, but sheepishly leaned forward and let Ian pop the cheesecake bite into his mouth. He made a pleased noise and flushed a little under Ian’s smug, lopsided grin.

“See, what did I tell you?” Ian said as he wiped away the sugar around Sal’s mouth with his thumb, “I get these any time I want to treat myself and—”

“Faggots!” the word rent the air and Sal stiffened and went white while Ian spun to face the troll. Their harasser was hard to miss—a young man in a bright yellow cycling suit, atop an equally bright yellow bicycle. He wasn’t interested in sticking around, and yelled a few more invectives over his shoulder as he rode laughing.

“We’re done here,” Sal said tightly and turned abruptly to head back to the car.

“Sal, don’t let that shit get to you,” Ian began, but Sal only seemed to move faster. Ian could only sigh and go after him.

Sal had fallen into a ponderous, sullen silence in the car and no one else spoke as Iggy headed for his boss’s favourite hotel. The silence stretched; the weird tension that had coiled around Sal earlier now spinning out and enveloping the whole vehicle. They had only been driving for a few minutes when a familiar yellow sight came into view and Sal did a double take. He leaned forward to tap Tony on the shoulder.

“That right there?” Sal said softly as he pointed to the rider ahead of the car, “is a fucking rude individual. Pick him up when you get a chance.”

Ian frowned in consternation and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Tony had taken the directive without so much as a question and Iggy had immediately cut his speed, hanging back and quietly trailing the man as he rode his bike.

“Sal, what’s going on?” Ian asked, but Sal didn’t answer him. Instead he laid a soothing hand on Ian’s thigh and kept his eyes locked on the unsuspecting rider.

It didn’t take long for the target to make an unwitting mistake. He turned onto a quiet road and started picking up speed. That was Iggy’s cue to hit the gas pedal and the car lurched forward. Seconds later, the car veered in front of the bike and screeched to a halt, leaving the cyclist mere feet to come to a sliding halt to avoid colliding into the side of the car. He barely managed it, and crashed to the ground inches before the vehicle.

“What the fuck?!” the cyclist spat out as he tried to disentangle himself from his bike and get to his feet.

Tony exited the car and came around the cursing young man, reaching him just as he struggled to his knees. A powerful blow to the back of the neck, just below his helmet knocked him right back down again.

“Sal, what the hell?!” Ian hissed, panicked, and still Sal didn’t speak. He kept stroking Ian’s thigh and watched the folding violence with the oddest, serene look on his face.

Tony delivered several hard kicks to the cyclist’s stomach before picking up the man’s bike and slamming it viciously on top of him. Now certain that the man was stunned and hurting, Tony dragged him to his feet and nodded to Iggy to open the trunk. Tony frisked him roughly and took his wallet and phone before shoving him into the trunk.

Ian blanched as the car dipped under the weight of the moaning man. “Sal, what are you—you can’t—” he caught Iggy looking at him in the rear-view mirror and the scruffy young man shook his head. Ian swallowed his words and sank down in the seat, trying desperately to stave off the fear, panic and confusion setting in.

They drove for what felt like forever with the sound of a terrified individual banging frantically against the trunk of the car. They arrived at an abandoned warehouse down by some docks and Ian was momentarily left alone when the three other men silently exited the car. Ian waited for a moment, unsure of what to do, until he heard the stranger babbling as they pulled him from the trunk and tossed him to the ground.

“What the fuck?! What the fuck?! Who are you people?!”

“Stand him up,” Sal ordered. Tony obediently yanked the gibbering man to his feet, making sure to keep his arms pinned as he forced him to face Sal. Sal stepped forward, slipping on a set of brass knuckles and frowned at the bruised up cyclist. “What, you forget my face already? You call me a faggot and forget me? There’s just no end to your rudeness.”

“Hey, no wait, I—” there was the crunch of hard metal connecting with flesh and teeth when Sal punched the man hard across the face.

“Wasn’t done talking,” Sal sniffed and shrugged off his jacket, tossing it to Iggy. “See what I’m talking about? Now why would you verbally assault two complete strangers? What animal raised you to think that’s okay? Why do people think it’s acceptable to _disrespect me_?!” another hard hit, this time below the ribs, and the man’s knees buckled.

Ian scrambled out of the car, unable to sit quietly while the carnage unfolded. Sal and Tony paid him no mind, but Iggy fixed him with a look of warning when he came to stand behind the enraged, older man. Sal was growing winded as he laid into the cyclist and finally stepped away.

“Let him drop,” Sal directed and watched as the cyclist crumpled, sobbing, to the ground, “teach him.”

Ian watched in horror as Tony started stomping on the man, alternating occasionally with vicious kicks to the face and body. Ian rested his hand hesitantly on Sal’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him down and get him to call this off. Before he could speak, Tony derailed his thoughts with an odd complaint.

“Fucker got blood all over my shoes,” Tony said and rummaged in his coat for a handkerchief.  Ian was nonplussed by the surrealism of the moment, but it stirred Sal all over again.

“Are those the new Ferragamo?” Sal asked and seemed to bristle when Tony nodded. He turned his rage once again upon the downed man, “you got blood all over his fucking Ferragamo!” landing another hard kick into the man.

Ian grabbed him in desperation. “Sal, no, come on, this has gone far enough. It’s not worth it. Just let him go…please?”

Sal was breathing heavily and looked at Ian as if he was registering him for the first time. At length, the older man nodded and signalled Tony to back off. By then, the cyclist was a broken, bloody mess, virtually unrecognizable from the man that had heckled them earlier.

“You see that?” Sal asked the barely conscious man, “you see how classy that is? This beautiful individual is interceding for you even after the disgraceful way you treated him. You going to fucking thank him or what?” It took a while, but eventually the man mumbled out something that sounded vaguely like a “thank you” with his ruined mouth. Sal appeared to be satisfied. “Clean this shit up,” he said to Iggy and took his jacket and headed back into the car.

“Can we call him an ambulance?” Ian asked Iggy softly, “he needs an ambulance.”

“Yeah, sure, give me a sec,” Iggy stooped down next to the moaning man and rifled through the wallet Tony had handed him. He did a quick check of his identification. “You look like shit, John Foster of 2358 Bernice Ave. You need an ambulance for real, man, but I need to know first, what happened to you tonight?”

“Nothing…”

Iggy’s laugh was weirdly good-natured, adding to the ongoing surrealist feel. “Nah, man, ‘nothing’ doesn’t fuck you up like this, John Foster of 2358 Bernice Ave. You gotta spin a better story, man. Ah, but you’ll figure it out, right? I’m going to keep this though, just in case,” Iggy pocketed the man’s driver’s licence and finally dialled 911, tossing the phone down next to him and then nodding to a shell-shocked Ian. “Let’s go.”

They joined Sal and Tony in the car and an awkward silence settled over them as Iggy headed back to the streets.

“I think I want to go back home now,” Ian said quietly, his hands fisted atop his thighs as he braced for Sal’s displeasure.

Sal said nothing, and simply nodded to Iggy who looked to him for confirmation. When the car stopped outside his rundown apartment building, Ian quickly exited without a word.

* * *

The following night, Ian finished his shift at the club and walked out into the chilly night air. He walked quickly, eager to get home to wash the sweat and smell of the club from his skin. He’d only made it a few blocks before a familiar town car pulled alongside him.

“Need a lift?” Sal asked from the backseat, looking as contrite and conciliatory as a man could look.  

“No thanks,” Ian ducked his head and kept walking, trying his best to ignore the car creeping along next to him.

“Ian, please, get in the car,” Sal asked again.

It was Iggy who convinced Ian to relent by giving Ian another of his significant looks. It had become a constant marvel to Ian, the way someone who seemed as constantly laid back and strung-out as Iggy could convey so much with a glance. All the brothers were like that to an extent—surprising experts at subtle, unspoken communication.

“Are you afraid of me?” Sal asked as Ian reluctantly settled next to him and Iggy stepped out of the car. Ian didn’t respond, but the answer was clear as he kept his head dipped and his eyes focused on his shoes. When Sal spoke again, the shame was heavy in his voice. “Please don’t be afraid of me. Be angry, yes, but don’t be afraid.”

Ian’s sardonic chuckle escaped his lips before he could stop it and he shot Sal a nervous glance to gauge his reaction.

“I wanted to apologise to you, Ian,” Sal started again, “what happened last night was fucking disgraceful and I should never have behaved the way I did. I was wound up from the meeting and then that fucking guy,” Sal took a deep breath and slowly expelled it. “You’re important to me, Ian, and if you’re with Sal Boerio, you’re supposed to feel protected. I take you out and there’s this fucking asshole saying this ugly shit. I lost it; it all just got on top of me for a second. It shouldn’t have happened.”

Ian looked at him uncertainly, “that was fucking scary, Sal.”

“I know, I know, but I promise you that that is not the man I am, and it’s a side of me you will not see again,” Sal shifted, turning his body fully towards Ian and taking the young man’s hand in both his own, “I swear to you on my mother’s grave, you will never have anything to fear from me, Ian. I just want to make sure you’re taken care of and protected.” Sal reached up and tenderly stroked Ian’s face, and smiled hopefully when Ian’s face softened. “What do you say, give a dumb old man another chance?”

Ian toyed with his bag, a small smile on his lips as he felt himself giving over. “No more scary shit, Sal.”

“No more scary shit,” Sal swore and reached for something on the floor. He handed a box the size of his palm.

“What’s this?” Ian asked and opened the box to retrieve the brand new cell phone within it.

“When Sal Boerio apologizes, he does it with a little substance,” Sal grinned widely. “Besides, the boys told me a phone like yours was due for an upgrade.”

“You didn’t have to do this, Sal.” Ian began, but Sal quickly dismissed the mild protest.

“Spoiling you is going to be my greatest pleasure. Perfection like yours deserves everything.”

* * *

A few days later, the four brothers sat in the basement of Sal’s pool house, drinking and playing poker while Sal entertained upstairs. Jaime’s phone rang, interrupting the game, and he fished his phone out.

“Collect call from a correctional facility…I wonder who that could be,” he said dryly before putting the phone on speaker and placing it in the center of the table.

“Hey, Mick!” the brothers said in chorus and all grinned at the surprised grunt at the other end of the line.

“You fuckheads are all together?” Mickey asked.

“Yeah, Sal’s talking shop with a few of his friends, so we’re sitting tight,” Tony explained.

“Yeah, okay…who’s coming to get me Friday?” Mickey asked and Joey raised his hand before catching himself and answering. “You remember how to get to the drop site? Don’t be fucking late and leave me waiting out at the bus stop like some kind of bitch.”

“I know how to get there and I won’t be late, Jesus!”

“We were just talking about you, Mick,” Jaime said, “we’re trying to figure out how best to ease you back into life on the outside. The world has changed.”

“Oh fuck off, how much can you assholes have fucked up in two months?”

“Nothing like that, but other things…like wait till you see the new mistress,” Tony chortled.

“Big fucking deal. Tell me about shit I care about, like not getting left standing at the fucking bus stop, _Colin_!”

“I fucking hate when you guys call me that,” Joey grumbled.

“I’m just saying,” Tony persisted, “wait till you see…”

“Yeah,” Mickey sniffed; a bundle of enthusiasm. “I can hardly wait.”

   

 


	3. Here Comes The Boom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end for a glossary. Please tell me if it's either helpful or unnecessary to include one.

“Why does everything I touch die?!” Dr. Anne Lester wailed while she desperately spritzed the potted plants lining her window sill.

Ian grinned at her hysterics and closed the door behind him as he stepped into her office. “Hyperbole or should I make a quick exit?”

Dr. Lester sighed and slumped dramatically. She was a short and slight woman, with large, expressive olive eyes and wild, curly brown hair which was haphazardly pinned together into a messy chignon. She shoved the sleeves of her too large cardigan up a little and held up her hands to Ian.

“Run, child; run as quickly as you can. You see these?” she wiggled her thumbs at Ian, “black as midnight; black as the evil that lurks in men’s hearts. I’ve have black thumbs, Ian! I’ve killed about five cacti in the space of a year and now these little traitors are about to give up the ghost.”

Ian laughed and grabbed a lump of play dough from one of the tables in the large, airy office and threw himself down onto the couch. “Those plants look like annuals, Dr. Lester.”

She blinked at him owlishly, “hmm?”

“It’s autumn now, they’re going to die. Not much you can do about it.”

She stared at him for a few seconds more before sagging with relief and clutching her chest. “Oh thank god! They were gifts from another patient and I was feeling so guilty. So I’m not the grim reaper of greenery!”    

Ian scrunched his face sceptically, “no, no, you’re probably still death on legs, but just not for these particular ones. How do you even kill cacti?”

“Meanie,” she sniffed and sat in her comfy armchair across from him. “Anywho, how goes it? Anything new to report?”

Ian shook his head and began messing with the play dough, “nah, just the usual.”

“How’s symptom management? Are you maintaining okay? Any new side-effects since I switched out the Lamotrigine?”

Ian shook his head again and shrugged, “it’s the same old stuff. I mean I have dry mouth sometimes, some days it’s hard to keep a train of thought going…but, you know, nothing I’m not used to by now.”

“And the exercising?” she asked a little softer, “have you been practicing what we’ve discussed and are you recognising your limits?”

His eyes flicked up to meet hers before he went back stabbing the play dough with his fingers. “Yeah, I still think I can push a little further, but I’ve been stopping when I begin feeling that twinge. I don’t even get to maintain my training schedule as much I like, anyway. You know, with school and everything?”

Dr. Lester smiled happily at that. “Ah yes, and how are things shaping up for your first semester, freshman?”

Ian groaned loudly and sank further into the couch. “So much freaking work. It’s insane how much they dump on us. I’m trying to manage my time and navigate everything and I’m maintaining for far, but between two jobs and Sal—”

“Who?” she asked, quickly latching on to a name she hadn’t heard before from Ian.

“Sal? Oh, this guy I’ve been seeing…”

Dr. Lester did her patented double take, performing what Ian regarded as the human equivalent of a needle scratch.

“A guy you’ve been seeing?!” she said, “correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t it about five minutes ago I asked you if there was anything new to report?”

“I swear you and Alex are the same person sometimes. I didn’t think it merited a report. Hooking up with someone is not that big a deal.”

“Oh really? That’s not what those eHarmony commercials have been telling me and right now they have far more credibility than you do,” she leaned back in her chair and eyed him steadily, “when did this start?”

Ian shrugged and thumped the play dough, “I don’t know, I guess maybe a month ago?”

“A mon—you’ve been here a million times and you never once thought to mention this?”

Ian snorted, “it’s not a big deal and Alex has already made enough of a ruckus out of the fact that he’s older. She did a couple of AP psych courses in high school and started thinking she was the second coming of Freud. Now that she’s actually started her degree, her elementary-level psychoanalyzing is this side of insufferable. I happen to like older guys, alright? She needs to tie everything into my so-called ‘daddy issues.’ So cheap and basic; and not everything in my life has to be about Frank!”

“Oookay!” she brushed her hair from her face and leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees and resting her chin in her hands. “Admittedly, it is a broad, oft abused diagnosis by the lay people, but if I may in Alex’s defence, she’s a close friend who knows that you grew up in a household with an extremely neglectful and unreliable father. It’s not unreasonable for her to believe that you may have a very specific void there. One that might be filled by an older, paternal figure. Surely you’d agree that it’s not a hard leap for one to make.”

Ian snorted and mumbled a low “whatever” beneath his breath. Dr. Lester decided to tackle the issue from another angle.

“So tell me about Sal.”

Ian thought it over for a moment, not entirely sure what to say. “He’s alright, I guess” Ian said at length, “he’s really sweet to me; actually listens when I talk and lets me get words in edgewise.” Ian dropped his defensiveness a little as he focused on Sal’s selling points. “He’s really generous, loves giving me stuff; he even got me some things I was still missing for school. He’s sixty-two, but he doesn’t look terrible or anything. Oh, and he’s funny, has some really interesting life philosophies…” Ian trailed off awkwardly, unsure of what else there was to add.

Dr. Lester smiled gently, “he ticks a lot of important boxes for you, doesn’t he?”

Ian nodded, though his brow furrowed as he turned over the dough in his hands. “Yeah, he’s great… Well I mean there was this one thing.”

“Hmm?”

“A little while ago, we were walking on the beach and some asshole called us fags. We sort of ran into the guy again a while later and Sal lost his mind—beat the shit out of him. It was pretty bad…kind of scary.”

Ian could tell she was alarmed. Her usual slouch disappeared and her brow furrowed in consternation. He could tell she was gearing up for a concerned lecture and he tried to head her off at the pass.

“He apologised for going off like that, though. He was having a bad day and everything kind of boiled over. He swears he’s not usually like that, and that nothing like that will ever happen again.”

“And when he apologised, did you truly and honestly believe it? That this was the first and last time you’ll see this violent side of him?”

Ian turned over the dough in his hands slowly and refused to meet her eyes. “He’s really good to me. Nothing’s going to happen that I can’t handle.”

Dr. Lester sighed, “you know, Ian, one of the more difficult things to deal within psychotherapy is tearing down the harmful mental infrastructure that develops in an individual coming from an abusive and unstable environment. Sometimes it doesn’t matter how time passes, or how smart and mature the person is… these things can sneak up on you, and it’s shockingly easy to get sucked  back into a cycle…”

“Can we not go down this road today?” Ian said wearily, “and I didn’t grow up in an ‘abusive environment.’ Frank’s a piece of shit and a fucking awful human being in general, but he wasn’t smacking us around every day. I mean, a couple of times—Jesus, not everything in my life has to come back to fucking Frank!”

“No,” Dr. Lester stated quietly, “but he does have an awful lot to answer for.”

* * *

Ian was only half-listening to Iggy’s babbling as they drove to the hotel. His session with Dr. Lester was still weighing on his mind even a day later. _“You deserve so much more than what you’re accepting, Ian.”_ Except he wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. Sal was good to him, the thing with the cyclist seemed isolated and Ian couldn’t figure out what “better” was supposed to be; what it would feel like. He shifted restlessly while Iggy contemplated the merits and drawbacks of natural and enhanced asses, chortling the whole time.

“I mean why would you even get an ass that big? Like what is it for?” Iggy mused, “tits, man, give me giant tits any day. Now that makes sense.”

“Hey, Iggy,” Ian began tentatively, “can I ask you something?”

“Yeah man, shoot.”

“Has anyone ever broken up with Sal?” Ian asked and waited while an awkward silence descended over them.

Iggy stayed quiet for a while, his eyes shifting back and forth between the road and Ian, clearly struggling with what he should say next. At length, he laughed and lazily smacked Ian’s arm with the back of his hand.

“Fuck, man, you still worried over that shit with that clown?” Iggy said, “don’t fucking worry about that. You got nothing to worry about with Sal. He’s a puppy for you. I told you, you keep him happy, he keeps you happy.”

“Yeah, but that’s not exactly answering the question though,” Ian persisted. “Has anyone ever broken up with him?”

Iggy hesitated before finally nodding, “well, yeah… a few times.”

“How does it usually work out?”

Iggy’s eyes flicked over to Ian and he licked his lips anxiously, “from what I’ve seen? Not so good.”

Ian nodded slowly, mostly surprised by how unsurprised he was at Iggy’s reluctant revelations. “So how do you think it would go if I tried to break up with him?”

Iggy sobered completely and gave Ian another of those weirdly meaningful glances. “Look, Ian, I know you’re freaked out, alright? It was a messed up thing to see, but this isn’t a conversation you need to be having. Just ride this out, man,” Iggy urged him, “Sal, he has his shit, but he’s not a bad guy, not to his side pieces at least. Plus, he’s got like the attention span of a goldfish. Give it a couple months…you’ll be free of it and sitting pretty.”

“What if I don’t want to wait a couple months?”

Iggy sighed and rubbed at his face. “Then you might end up having an entirely different conversation with Tony, or Jaime or any of the other dudes Sal has to take care of any unpleasantness,” Iggy said grimly, “Ian, man, I can’t tell you what to do, but Sal don’t take rejection too good and he’s crazy about you, dude. Just…be patient. You can work him any way you want. I know you can; you’re a smart dude. Sit this out and it will be all worthwhile.”

* * *

“Hey, Al! How’s it hanging, dude?” Kevin yelled after Alex as she passed them, stone-faced. He clicked his tongue, apparently reprimanding her for her non-responsiveness. “Yeesh, always so cranky. Smile, baby, you couldn’t possibly be on your period now, could ya?”

Alex cringed at the sound of Kevin’s voice as she marched up to the supermarket. The Asshole Patrol was hanging out behind the supply trucks, taking their smoke break and of course, she had the bad timing to show up while they were out. She couldn’t help but physically recoil whenever one of them so much as spoke up. She quickened her step, almost shivering with anxiety at the thought of one of them coming after her.

The gods were good, however, and it appeared that they decided she wasn’t worth tormenting at the moment. Not that the damage wasn’t already done. As much as she tried, she just couldn’t seem to develop a thicker skin when it came to them. Instead, she felt more vulnerable and sensitive by the day, and by the time she reached the door, she was a bundle of nerves. She met Ernesto at the door, the newest stock boy, who hadn’t done much to warrant an opinion yet besides leering. He smiled widely when he saw her, his gaze sweeping her body as he greeted her.

“Hi, Alex,” he said warmly.

It was a benign enough greeting, but she was already so overwrought, she felt like throwing up at the sight of him. She could only manage a disgusted “ugh” as she shoved past him.

“Stuck up bitch,” she heard him snarl behind her, and clearly she was on her way to making another friend.

“Leave that alone, ese; it’s a trap!” a member of the Asshole Patrol called out to a confused Ernesto and Alex shuddered and hurried off to find Ian.

She found him alone in the employee break room, fussing with the laces of his boots as he lounged around waiting for his shift to start.

“Your phone doesn’t work anymore, jerk?!” she snapped irritably. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to regain control of her frayed nerves.

He was genuinely surprised to see her. “What the hell are you doing here? What’s the point of having a day off if you show up to work anyway?” he paused a beat before another realization struck him. “Wait, you just walked in on your own? Why didn’t you call me to come out?”

“Well like I said, I thought your new space-age phone wasn’t taking my number anymore. I sent you a bunch of links last night and I tried calling you! Did you see them? Did you read them?!” she demanded and her brow furrowed when Ian only sighed and sidestepped her to get his smock.

“I was kinda tied up. What was so important, Allie?”

“Oh you didn’t read them then? What, were you too busy shoving your fist up your mob boss boyfriend’s ass?!” she dramatically whipped out a bunch of printed out news articles from her jacket and shoved them in Ian’s face. She was gobsmacked when he only huffed tiredly and sidestepped her again. “What? What? Hello?” she stared as he poured hitherto unheard of focus into tying his smock. “Oh my god, you know?!”

“He’s actually a _capo_. Probably found out around the same time you did,” he confessed and threw up his hands in defeat. “There was an incident a little while ago, figured I should see if there was anything to know.”

“What kind of incident?!” Alex’s alarm was growing rapidly. None of this was good for her health.

Ian shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Some guy harassed us and Sal ended up taking him to some abandoned warehouse and beating the shit out of him.”

Alex didn’t know how she hadn’t collapsed from the shock. “Ian!”

“I know…”

Alex was apoplectic. “You know?! You can’t possibly know and still be in this! He’s mafia, Ian! A mobster! Like the legit mafia. He’s a member of the Outfit! As in the Valentine’s Day Massacre and Tommy guns and Al Capone and…and…other mafia type guys,” she petered out.

“Only know the one, huh?” Ian’s cool half-smile nearly murdered her.

“This isn’t fucking funny, you idiot!” she huffed, “you have to get out of this! How are you not shitting yourself right now?!”

“Maybe because I grew up with gypsies, tramps and thieves?” Ian nonchalantly checked his watch and smoothed his smock, “You’re a North side girl, so you don’t know that the Outfit is basically the Southside with union benefits. I’ve seen way worse shit than what those articles describe. Besides, have you really read those? Sal is definitely no Al Capone.”

Alex glanced down at the papers, already knowing what Ian meant. There weren’t a ton of articles on Sal, and the ones she found were old and weren’t exactly charitable. Sal seemed to have been at his most visible during the eighties and nineties, when the media sneeringly referred to him as the “second Dapper Don,” since he seemed to be mimicking John Gotti as best as he could. He had been a flashy show off with a taste for expensive clothes and vices, but clearly lacked the business acumen and reputation to back it up.

Based on the articles, the media and public seemed to regard him as some kind of lumbering buffoon, despite his fairly high ranking in a powerful and dangerous organization. By the early 2000s, the articles had slowly dried up, most likely from a combination of Mafia’s shrinking relevance and Sal either learning his lesson or acquiring better handlers. Still, the Outfit and its members were never anything to sneeze at.

“Ian, I don’t care what you say; you’ve got to get out of this!”

“How?” Ian asked simply, “how would you break up with a mobster?”

Alex was stymied; she hadn’t actually thought that part out. “Shit, I don’t know…very carefully?”

“From what I heard, he doesn’t take rejection well. However, he has the ‘attention span of a goldfish,’ so he should be kicking me to the curb in a minute.” He could see her doubt and agitation, so he walked over and enveloped her in a big hug. “Look, I know you’re worried, but I’m not. I have this under control. I can handle Sal. He’s a sweet guy, and he’s good to me. Somehow I know this will all be worth it in the end.”

* * *

“Milkovich! Time for you to get the fuck out!” The correctional officer came to a stop at Mickey’s cell, where the young man had already packed everything and was standing at the bars, raring to go. “You ready?”

“Nah, I thought I’d just hang out here for a while, C block’s having a volley ball match later,” Mickey sneered, “what the fuck do you think? Get me the fuck up outta here.”

“God, such a charmer, this one,” the CO rolled her eyes, “my daughter would absolutely love you.”

She yelled for them to open Mickey’s cell and soon they were marching down the corridor, heading to processing and discharge. Mickey smirked as the block hooted and hollered as he headed out for release.

“Ay, fuck you, fuck you, and especially fuck you!” Mickey yelled to selected inmates as he passed.

“So touching,” the CO said.

“Well you know me. I’m all about the Hallmark moments.”

Not soon enough, Mickey was in processing, eyeing another officer impatiently as she slowly returned his things, announcing each item loudly before sliding the sealed bags across to him. He got back his clothes and personal effects and tried to suppress his irritation when she lingered over his watch.

“Bulgari? Nice…” she nodded and finally handed it over.

“I’m so glad you approve.”

She too rolled her eyes at his sarcasm. “Transport is waiting for you. Try not to come back too quickly.”

* * *

Mickey stepped out of the transport van and sighed at what he didn’t see. He was going to kick Joey’s ass all over the North side. He pulled up the hood of his jacket against the early morning chill and headed for the bus stop. He sat down and fished for his cigarettes, slipping one between his lips as he went searching for his lighter. He found it, but it was empty, and how he was going to have to kick Joey’s ass even harder.

“Need a light, or are you doing that stupid metaphor shit?”

Mickey raised an eyebrow at the young woman that seemed to pop out of nowhere. For a moment, she looked like an old movie starlet—smooth blond hair and black trench coat, with suspiciously bare legs in oxford pumps. Mickey nodded at her and she stood squarely before him and leaned in, letting Mickey know there wasn’t a whole lot of clothing beneath that coat.

She sat next to him on the bus stop and crossed her long, well-shaped legs, drawing Mickey’s attention to them. He didn’t mind admiring them, or the absolutely ridiculous body that he now knew was beneath that coat.

“I’m Trish,” she swept her hair to the side and eyed a still silent Mickey. “Waiting for someone?”

Mickey took another drag of his cigarette and chuckled to himself before taking a sweeping look around. “I take it you’ve just started doing this.”

“Doing what?” she asked innocently and swung her leg a little, loosening the trench coat even more.

“Yeah, you just started, because you haven’t run into problems yet,” Mickey took another puff of his cigarette and swept another assessing gaze over the length of her. “Thrill seeker, huh? What do you do, wait to see who gets off the transport and make a judgment call? That’s not a sustainable or advisable plan, Trish.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“Because you have to figure out if a guy is bad enough to satisfy you, but not so bad he won’t stab you in the neck after you’re done. Law of averages says you’re going to make an error in judgement sooner or later.”

Trish rolled her blue eyes. “Oh Jesus, I’m getting lectured by a jailbird. Listen, I’m good to go, are we going to bang or what?”

Mickey couldn’t help but be amused. He sort of liked her. “Look, this is dangerous and stupid—extremely stupid. You want the thrill of crazy, anonymous sex? I can hook you up, and with a lot more control and considerably less danger.” Mickey searched through his jacket for a piece of paper and a pen and handed Trish a single phone number. He could hear the approach of a familiar engine. “Think about dyeing your hair red. I’m partial to them, and I need a Jessica Rabbit type.”

Trish looked from the paper to him before blooming into an amused, intrigued smile. “Oh my god, are you some kind of pimp?”

“No, I’m more like the mayor of New Jack City,” Mickey got to his feet as Joey screeched to a halt before the bus stop. “Go home, Trish, and call that number when you’re ready to talk to me.”

Trish raised an eyebrow and deliberately tucked the paper into her cleavage, choosing to bypass the pockets of her trench coat and flashing the lacy bra beneath it. Mickey smirked before turning his attention to his brother.

“Sorry I’m late, Mick! I—”

“Who told you that you could drive my fucking Mustang?! And did you just grind my goddamned gears? You had this shit in second the whole damn time; I could hear it straining from a mile off. Get the fuck out of my car, you goddamned imbecile.”

Despite the abuse, Joey grinned widely at his brother as he got out of the car and came around the front. He pounced on his grumpy brother despite Mickey’s protests.

“Get the fuck off me, jackass,” Mickey said gruffly, but hugged him back briefly before shoving him off. “You better have brought me some food.”

Joey headed for the passenger side and caught sight of a watchful Trish. He immediately slowed and leered at her. “How you doing, girl?”

“Zip it back up and start saving your money. You’ll be seeing her soon enough,” Mickey said and gave his car a once over before getting in.

“That’s quite the assumption,” Trish said and stood up to tighten her belt.

“Go home, Trish, and think about that dye job,” Mickey started the car and ordered his still gawking brother in. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Mickey had told his brothers to forgo the welcome home party, but Jaime made sure to make a massive meal. Mickey came home to the pool house at the back of Sal’s property, and spent an hour with his brothers, chatting and stuffing himself to bursting. When he was done, he took the longest, hottest shower he could manage before crawling into bed and passing out for the rest of the day.

He roused just before nightfall and he sat up groggily, taking a minute to get his bearings. He stretched and padded off to the bathroom to start freshening up, but it wasn’t long before there was a knock at his door. He yelled that it was open and Jaime and Tony came in.

“We come bearing gifts,” Tony said and placed a couple large boxes at the edge of the bed before he sank down into it and made himself comfortable. Jaime took a seat in the chair by the window. Tony spoke again, “from Sal; he came by to see you earlier and we told him you were sleeping. So he left you this shit, says he might see you later.”

“Yeah?” Mickey opened the boxes to reveal a new trench coat in one and a three piece suit in the other.

“Armani… fucking teacher’s pet,’ Tony teased, “hey, Jaime, what did you get the last time you got out?”

Jaime scoffed, “pfft, I dunno—a six pack?”

“You fucking wish you got a six pack,” Mickey muttered beneath his breath and dragged out the pair of pants.

“Sal said it should fit perfect, but to go Federico if it needs any adjustments. You know your short ass will need adjustments,” both brothers snickered as Mickey swept them both with the finger. “As I was saying, last time I sprung the joint, I think I got a gift card to Applebee’s.”

“Of course you got a gift card to Applebee’s, with your fat ass,” Mickey shrugged on the vest over his T-shirt and the jacket and turned to examine himself in his full-length mirror. “You wanna know the real difference between you and me? I make this look good.”

Jaime laughed out loud while Tony crumpled up some of the wrapping paper and tossed it at his baby brother’s head. Mickey was unrepentant, preening in the mirror and laughing to himself.

“Gotta kiss myself, so pretty,” Mickey added before starting to shrug out of the suit.

“You going to hit the ground running?” Jaime spoke up and quickly sobered the room, “shit’s gotten a little weirder since you went in.”

“Yeah?” Mickey replied while he packed away his new clothes and went about looking for some casual ones. “Tell me.”

“Sal’s up to two party packs a day now,” Tony said. “Old man’s got more drugs in him than the neighbourhood Walgreens.”

“When the fuck did that happen?”

“A little after you went in? It’s not like he’s going to listen to any of us about going easy on that shit,” Tony pointed out, “I swear, man, it’s like the second coming of the mid-life crisis.”

“And now that he’s filled with all this ‘inspiration’ and new energy, he’s having all kinds of plans and ideas,” Jaime said, picking up the thread, “went as far as bringing up some of those ideas at a meeting of the heavies a couple weeks back.”

“Shit,” Mickey breathed, “how the fuck did that go?”

“How did you expect?” Jaime said grimly, “some of the bigger boys straight up laughed in his face. Fucked him up real good. He ended up going off on some random on the street; had Tony fuck him up. Side piece was freaked out. It was sloppy; he’s getting sloppy again, Mick.”

“How’re his made boys acting?” Mickey chewed on his inner cheek, not liking any part of the picture his brothers were painting.

“Fuck the made men,” Jaime snarled and Tony nodded, “they’re barely even pretending they respect him now, and they resent the hell out of us any way. They’re leaving us to clean up all his shit. It’s even worse with this new side piece. Sal is fucking whipped and being careless about him. You know how the old boys feel about Sal flaunting his…proclivities.”

Mickey ran a hand over his face and sighed. “So what about this new trick then? Is he the one encouraging the drug use?”

“Nah,” Tony shook his head, “he’s a good boy. Sal’s putting his best face forward for as long as he can. I don’t even think Ian knows that Sal uses yet,” Tony said, looking at Jaime for confirmation.

“Ian?”

“Ian Gallagher,” Tony and Jaime said in unison.

“He’s banging some fucking Mick now? What the hell?”

Tony started laughing, “that’s the fucking least of it. You need to see this one, Mickey, and you will because Sal wants you to take over chauffeur duties from Iggy. Precious cargo, you know?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Like I don’t have a million and one fucking things to do ahead of schlepping some bitchy, old queen around?!”

Jaime and Tony exchanged a look and wordlessly agreed not to correct Mickey. Some things were better found out naturally, and it was bound to be amusing as all get out.

“So what are you going to do first?” Jaime asked as Mickey buttoned his jeans and pulled on a clean T-shirt.

“First? I’m gonna go get my dick sucked, is what I’m going to do,” Mickey pulled down a leather jacket and shrugged it on. “I need to get my pipes cleaned before I deal with any of this stupid shit.”

* * *

Mickey settled into his car and took a few deep breaths. He just sat quietly for a while, processing the fact that he was once again free from jail only to come right back into this stressful, suffocating bullshit again. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and then his temples before picking up his cell and speed dialling a familiar number.

“What’s good?” Andre’s smooth tenor came across the line and made Mickey smile.

“You tell me.”

“Mick? Shit, I thought it was one of your brothers,” Dre laughed, clearly pleased to hear Mickey’s voice. “I thought you got serious time for holding the old dude’s bag. They really let that ass out of jail already, Nyquil? You should have given a brother a head’s up. I’d have thrown you a little parade.”

“You still can. You busy?”

“Shit, all the time; but what’s life if you don’t stop to smell the roses?” Dre said, “you coming through right now?”

“Yeah, see you in twenty.”

Mickey ended the call and started the car. Drugged up bosses and brand new side pieces could wait one more night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Outfit - The Chicago Outfit (aka the Chicago Mafia, Chicago Mob, or Capone Mob) is an Italian American crime syndicate based in Chicago, Illinois. 
> 
> Made Man - a fully initiated member of the Mafia
> 
> Capo/Caporegime - is a term used in the Mafia for a high-ranking made member of a crime family who heads a "crew" of soldiers and has major social status and influence in the organization.


	4. Ring the Alarm

He was feeling that twinge again—that alarm going off in the back of his mind and in the muscles of his body that warned he was pushing too hard. He knew he should start cooling down and end his session but all he wanted to do was to keep pushing. He dropped to the floor and started some crunches, trying his best to ignore the pain, fatigue and Dr. Lester’s aggravated voice in his ear. Maybe he should do some low impact cardio instead as a sort of compromise. He eventually stopped, however, and very reluctantly gave into the physical and mental warnings.

After cooling down, Ian made his way to the bathroom and stared wearily into his mirror. He had overdone it a little, but he was getting better at managing the impulse. In fact, it had been a while since he had broken his promise, but he craved control. He couldn’t remember the last time things had felt this crazy. For as long as he could remember, things had always been spiralling for him in one way or another, and Ian rarely felt in control of anything. Anything, that is, except his body—that was his and his alone, to use, push, punish and barter if needs be.

But this mess was on a whole other level. Not only were things spinning wildly out of his control, but he felt stuck, which to Ian was the absolute worst feeling in the world. Stuck to a person, stuck in a situation, unable to yank free of the restraints and just get the fuck away from it. He sighed heavily and bent to wash his face. Alex had been showing superhuman restraint by not repeatedly slapping him in the face with “I told you so’s” and truly, he seemed to have gotten himself into yet another ridiculous situation.

Iggy had painted a pretty ominous picture, but Ian still struggled reconciling the Sal he knew with the one Iggy presented. Ian had been actively trying not to think of the worst case scenarios and the encroaching darkness of the situation and chose to focus on the fact that Sal, duplicitous with hidden depths of rage, was still tightly wrapped around his little finger. Sal wasn’t bad, he told himself again and again, and there was a semblance of power to be reclaimed there. Ian knew that it might be heights of denial and self-delusion, but how else could he approach this? One thing he knew though, he couldn’t simply rely on Iggy’s interpretation. He was going to have to find just where his boundaries lay with Sal, which meant he was going to have to push.

* * *

“Man, it’s good to be out,” Mickey sighed contentedly as he yanked up his pants and searched for his socks and shoes. Dre was already up and moving quietly around his apartment, messing about. Neither of them was the type to linger in bed.

“Shit, you’re lucky they didn’t hit you with ‘intent to sell.’ They could have smoked your ass for that,” Dre said from the bathroom where he checked the neatness of his dreads in the mirror. He strolled back out, grinning easily at his guest.

He was amazing to look at—tall and well muscled with a litany of tattoos winding up the lengths of his arms over his biceps and to his shoulders, some with meanings Mickey could only guess at. His even, white smile stood out in warm contrast to the smooth darkness of his skin, and he obsessively kept the hair of his waist-length locks neatly in place. He liked to preen sometimes, which was fine with Mickey, because sometimes Mickey liked to admire.

“Did the old man feel bad about you taking the rap at least?” Dre asked and offered Mickey a blunt. He grinned when Mickey emphatically shook his head. “Right, first night on parole jitters.” He lit up and sat at the foot of the bed across from Mickey, who had made himself comfortable in the chair.

“I guess he feels bad about it,” Mickey replied, “it was his shit after all. Haven’t seen him yet, but he left me a new suit for my troubles. He knows his ass wouldn’t last a day in the joint—connected or not.”

Dre expelled a plume of smoke and snorted, “that shit seems worth more than a suit to me. I ain’t taking shit for nobody unless they’re kin or they’re really making it worth my while. You mob boys though, funny as shit,” Dre shook his head, “but that lawyer y’all got though, mad skills; you guys willing to loan her out for a bit? Trey caught a case.”

“Fuck, really? What did he do?”

“Returns fraud…let his dumbass girlfriend sweat him and followed her to grab a bunch of shit off a department store rack and tried to return them for the gift cards.”

Mickey was mildly impressed. “That’s actually not a bad racket.”

“Word, except they hadn’t moved any of that merchandise yet, so returns were a little impossible. Now we gotta find character witnesses and shit so he can hopefully get off with community service or something.”

Mickey shrugged, “I’d love to help you out and testify to his character but…”

Dre laughed out loud, “Nah, don’t worry about it. Can you imagine that shit? A bunch of you Outfit motherfuckers telling the judge that Trey’s a good boy? No thanks.”

Mickey snickered at the thought before his smile eventually faded and he suddenly stomped Dre on his bare foot. Dre nearly swallowed the blunt in shock.

“Ow, bitch, what?!” Dre cried and massaged his battered foot.

“Two party packs a day?” Mickey accused, “you have his ass on two fucking party packs a day? One was bad enough. One fucking party pack got me sent up for two months and now you have him on two?”

“Man, what the fuck do you want me to do about it? I’m just the pharmacist; I fill the prescription but I don’t write the script,” Dre put his foot down gingerly, watching Mickey’s booted feet with great wariness. “Who am I to say no to a loyal customer? He’s gonna put my brother and sister through college at this rate.”

Mickey snorted ruefully, “if it doesn’t fucking kill him.”

“Eh, the Viagra will kill him before anything else. He goes fucking hard on that shit.”

Mickey hadn’t been so grossed out in ages and his face crumpled. “I don’t need to know that shit! Gross… wait, you sell Viagra?”

“I solve all types of problems, baby,” Dre reached over and playfully ran his hands over Mickey’s thighs, “just holla at me and I’ll cure whatever ails you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and slapped a laughing Dre’s hands away.

“That reminds me though; I’m getting some Shatter in couple of days. If he wants a hit, he needs to talk fast. That shit goes like hotcakes.”

“Shatter?! What the fuck is Shat—I can’t fucking believe this!” Mickey was off and running, “I have to learn some new drug shit like every fucking week. He’s on shit called Shatter now?! What kind of a fucking name is that? What does that—what does that even do?! What is that? What the fuck is next? What other brain liquefying, ass leaking shit am I going to have to deal with next week? Fucking Shatter…No he does not want any fucking thing called Shatter or Crash or Splinter or whatever the fuck!”

Dre was delighted. He sat enraptured as Mickey quickly worked himself into a fine lather, hands and eyebrows flying everywhere. By the time Mickey wound down, Dre was almost in tears.

“Jesus, grandpa is that you? I swear to everything, man, you sound exactly like my granddad. You both got that cranky, old nigga spirit in you,” Dre slapped Mickey’s thigh affectionately and shoved off the bed. “It’s just good old THC, very concentrated.”

Mickey grunted and stood to find his jacket. “Whatever, it still sounds stupid.”

Dre ignored that and popped out of his closet with two dress shirts and held them up for Mickey’s inspection. “Which one? I’ve got a date tonight.”

Mickey nodded at one and raised an amused eyebrow at Dre. “Seems fancy for IHOP.”

“Man, fuck you. Nothing low brow for this princess; she could be wifey.”

“Yech, girl cooties,” Mickey grinned and shrugged on his jacket.

“Fuck off with your prejudice. You monosexuals are an endless source of bafflement to me. How can you limit yourself like that? How can you want to fuck Jay-Z and not Beyoncé?”

“Terrible example—pretty sure the only person who wants to fuck Jay-Z is Beyoncé,” Mickey pointed out, “and you find a new ‘one’ every other month, so forgive me if I don’t share your wide-eyed optimism. But good luck on your epic quest to find true love and unicorns, and slay dragons and all that shit.”

Dre was unruffled, “I have missed your special brand of cynicism, so go ’head,” he smiled at Mickey’s sceptical snort and yelled after him as he headed out the door. “It’s coming for you, man! and I’ll be here laughing my ass off when it turns your dumb ass goofy!”

Mickey flipped him off and shut the door behind him.

* * *

Iggy kept throwing nervous glances at Ian while on their way to the hotel. Ian was being uncharacteristically quiet, giving brief, usually monosyllabic answers to Iggy’s questions and thwarting all of Iggy’s effort s to draw him into conversation.

“Hey, everything cool?” Iggy asked.

“Yeah, fine.”

Iggy was unconvinced, but ploughed on anyway, “so here’s the thing, I’m not going to be your regular driver anymore. Mickey’s back and Sal wants him to take over.”

Ian’s head whipped around to glare at Iggy. “What? Why?”

“I dunno. Mickey doesn’t usually do the side piece detail. Best I can guess, Sal’s really into you and if it’s important to Sal, Mickey handles it.”

Ian was pissed; this was yet another piece of straw on the camel’s back. “What the fuck? You’re driving me back and forth, not performing my brain surgery! Why does Mickey have to be in charge of everything anyway?”

Iggy stared at Ian blankly, a little thrown by the question. “Because it’s Mick?”

“What does that even mean?” Ian persisted, “I mean, is he the oldest?”

“No…Jaime is. Mick’s the baby out of the boys.”

“So why isn’t Jaime in charge? Doesn’t that make more sense?”

“Because Mick is?” Iggy replied slowly, clearly discomfited and confused by this incendiary, and possibly heretical, line of rhetoric. “Mickey’s the smart one, okay? He just…he just runs shit. It’s the way it’s been forever. Look, don’t worry about it. Mickey’s cool; you’ll like him. Just don’t talk too much when you meet him, alright? He gets a little cranky.”

* * *

Sal opened the door and leaned up eagerly to kiss Ian, only to plant his lips on a folder blocking Ian’s face instead. He blinked in confusion at Ian’s terse “no” as the young man shoved past him and huffily tossed his bag to the floor. Sal closed the door and turned to face a glowering Ian.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know, why don’t you tell me, Sal?” Ian sneered, his hostile demeanour belying the heart shaking in his chest. “I wish you’d tell me so many things. Like, what is it like being a capo in the mafia? How does that go?”

Sal froze and stared at Ian silently, the gears clearly grinding hard between the brown eyes. An uncomfortable silence settled in the hotel room and neither moved until Sal wiped a hand over his face and rubbed his chin.

“Who told you about that?”

Ian rolled his eyes and waved the folder before tossing it at Sal’s feet. “Google, Sal; Google told me. It had a whole lot to say too. Stuff I figure you should have told me first!”

Sal kept rubbing his face and watching Ian, ignoring the folder at his feet. “What gives you the right to look into me?”

Ian looked taken aback. “Are you kidding?”

“You had no fucking right looking into me like I’m some common criminal.”

Ian snorted his derision, “I don’t know; according to Google, you are some kind of common criminal. All that shit is public record.”

“Public record, my fucking business,” Sal said quietly before suddenly exploding, “you have no _right_ going in _my fucking business_!”

The alarm was blaring loudly in Ian’s head, but he couldn’t afford to be cowed now. He needed to push, to find just where those boundaries lay.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ian shot to his feet and stomped forward to get right in Sal’s face, “you wanna turn this shit on me? You let me find out I’m fucking some goddamned mobster, but I made the fucked up decision?!”

Sal was forced to step back to avoid having to crane his neck to stare up into Ian’s face. He glared hard but didn’t lash out just yet. Instead, he shook his head ruefully. “It’s my fucking business. It has nothing to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me! I told you the one thing I wanted was honesty. That’s all and you haven’t fucking delivered!” Ian’s volume climbed steadily, “last month it was the wife, this month you’re a mobster! What the fuck is going to happen next month?!” Ian backed off and shook his head. “How could you think I’d be okay with any of this? Fuck this; this is insane. I don’t know you.” Ian turned and picked up his bag off the floor, “I’m going home.”

Sal did reach out then, grabbing Ian’s arm and holding fast until Ian stopped. “Alright, stop, just hold on a second,” Sal sighed heavily, “why are things like this, huh? You want to know who I am? Fine,” Sal released Ian and took a deep breath as the young man crossed his arms and glared him down. Sal shrugged and pulled uncomfortably at his white tank. “I’m Salvatore Boerio, sixty-two years old. I’ve got a wife, who hates me, and a kid that resents the shit out of me. I’m a capo in the Chicago Italian Mob, not for anything of merit, but because I had the foresight to marry one of the Don’s favourite nieces. He wanted her taken care of and married to a man who wasn’t some piece of shit mafia soldier. Hence my promotion.”

Sal rubbed at the back of his neck, clearly unhappy with the current conversation, but forging ahead because Ian was still listening and seemed to be relaxing in slow, small increments. Sal continued, “I’m barely a gangster…not for lack of trying, I’ll admit that. But a lot of the higher ups think I’m some kind of joke because I married up or because they think I’m a fairy or what have you. Some of them don’t even need a fucking reason. I’m just trash. I give ideas, they laugh them off. I do my job, I put in my time, they still look at me like I’m fucking nothing…I get no respect, no respect at all!”

Sal laughed lamely, but trailed off when he saw Ian looking at his askance. “You know, ‘no respect’? Rodney Dangerfield?” he sighed when Ian shook his head in confusion, “Jesus Christ, you’re young.”

He stepped close to Ian and rubbed his hands over Ian’s biceps. “Please tell me you can understand why I wouldn’t tell you about these things, Ian. They’re unpleasant and ugly, and I don’t want any part of that getting anywhere near you. That Sal Boerio, with the hateful wife and the resentful kid, in a job where he’s just a well-off loser…I don’t want to be him. I don’t even want to think about him. This right here, this is the Sal I want to be—the one who’s with you, the one who takes care of you,” Sal reached up and cradled Ian’s cheek. “I’ll answer any question you have, but I swear to you this is the truth.”

Ian wasn’t sure what to make of all of it. Part of him was rejoicing, since he felt that there had been a definite power shift in his favour. He had gotten in Sal’s face without consequence which bolstered his own feelings of control and optimism. Another part of him said he needed to stop kidding himself. He was trapped for the time being in a relationship with a dangerous man who had yet to shed his skin and show true colours. What he needed was to find a way out. His thoughts were derailed by Sal abruptly dropping to his knees.

“Please, Ian, give me another chance,” Sal spoke into the soft material of Ian’s T-shirt, “I’m not above begging…you make me want to be a better man!”

Ian laughed in spite of himself, “okay, that movie I actually saw…”

“Oh,” Sal peeped up, “‘here’s looking at you, kid’?”

“You’re an idiot,” Ian sighed and felt himself giving over, “this is so fucking weird. I don’t know…”

“One more chance,” Sal intoned and grabbed Ian’s ass and rubbed his face just above the younger man’s crotch, tickling him and making him laugh. “Just one more chance, it’s the last I’ll ask of you.” He grabbed the back of Ian’s knees and got him to the floor. He leaned over Ian and brushed a lock of the red hair from his face. “I keep fucking up, but this will be all worth your while, Ian; I swear to you.”

Once again, Ian found himself unable to reconcile the two Sals he knew about. This Sal cared about him, he didn’t doubt that, but Christ was it worth it? “Alright…one more chance,” Ian said and gave in when a grinning Sal leaned down to kiss him. Fuck, he hated being stuck, but maybe it would be worth it somehow after all.

* * *

Mickey was already confused. He sat in the car staring at the rundown apartment building and wondered if he had the right place. The place was a dump, situated in one of those unofficial college towns that were half way between the North and South sides. There should be nothing but broke college kids and cheap, greasy fast food around, so it made no sense that Sal’s high maintenance new piece would be here. 

He checked the satnav one more time and sat checking out the place a while longer. He wasn’t sure why he was hesitating; he had endured dozens of Sal’s lovers. But Sal had been unpredictable lately and this new one had happened while he was away. It was all coming together to make him a little on edge. Mickey huffed in annoyance, straightened his tie and got out of the car, making his way to meet Sal’s new love.

He lit a cigarette in the elevator, ignoring the censorious glances of the other occupants, and got off at the eighth floor. It was even more of a dump on the inside, and Mickey’s confusion only grew. He headed down the dark corridor to the last apartment on the floor and—after double checking the address—knocked hard on the door.  

Awkwardness settled quickly after Ian opened up and the cigarette smoke finally cleared. The acrid mist dissipated leaving two very shocked young men staring at each other in disbelief. Not a word was said; instead the two looked each other up and down and surmised that this had to be some sort of mistake; a serendipitous mistake, but a mistake nonetheless.

Ian’s brain ground to a halt as he took in the vision before him. He recognized the outfit as yet another Brooks Brothers suit, though Iggy and Joey certainly didn’t look like that in theirs. This guy was gorgeous, and the well-tailored, black three piece suit and open trench coat certainly weren’t hurting. It was funereal, but for the pop of colour courtesy of the red tie, but it was hot as hell and actually screamed mobster as opposed to the sad attempts he had seen so far. The only things missing were the fedora and the Tommy-gun.

His face was the selling point for Ian though. That was an amazing face. A face that was looking at him rather sceptically and with a tinge of horror, but that could hardly be held as a mark against it. Ian was distracted by the hand coming up to bring a cigarette to his visitor’s lips, which were also quite the distraction, but the tattooed fingers managed to get the ball rolling in Ian’s brain.

“Um, hi?”

Mickey was dumbfounded. There had to be some sort of mistake. This was a kid. Sal didn’t date kids; he liked his side pieces to be contemporaries; flamboyant old queens who got his dated jokes and didn’t make him feel dumb or decrepit. Something must have gone wrong somewhere. His brothers had told him about the fall of Victor/Victoria and had warned him that he was in for a surprise with the new one, but _this_? Mickey had been bracing for a bunch of possibilities, but this though, this was just unacceptable.

His gaze moved slowly over the chiselled torso and down to Red’s abs. He could wash and hang clothes on those things. He couldn’t stop staring despite his best efforts. Sal was officially losing it. How the hell do you go from drag queens to Calvin Klein models? Still, a package like that would shove anyone out of their comfort zone. Where the fuck did Sal even find this guy, and were there more like him?

_“Um, hi?”_

Mickey blinked when Red spoke and he was chagrined that the other man had snapped out of their weird fugue first. He took a slow drag of his cigarette and raked Red up and down again. He couldn’t fucking help it, but he hoped it read as intimidation rather than the blatant sexual assessment it really was. He seethed out a billow of smoke and nodded at the other man.

“Sal wants to see ya.”

“Sal?” Ian echoed hollowly.

 _“Wonderful and he’s a Rhodes Scholar too,”_  Mickey thought to himself. Just his luck that he was going to be the one dealing with this ginger clown until Sal got tired of him. Still, that fucking face… a face like that covered a multitude of shortcomings. He still couldn’t really fault Sal for this foray into the unusual. One doesn’t need brain cells to bang.  

Meanwhile, Ian’s overtaxed brain was drawing a blank. For the life of him he couldn’t summon an image of this so-called Sal. It was working hard though, connections were being made, synapses were firing, and neural pathways were being created. Finally he had a bingo.

“You’re Mickey, right?” Ian’s face lit up, “you’re the missing Milkovich.” For all of his harrumphing earlier, Ian suddenly found himself completely okay with Iggy’s ouster.

“And  _you’ve_  got to be fucking kidding me,” Mickey muttered, trying not to feel a little tingly that Red already knew his name. “Can you go get ready, please? Or are you good to go already? …I don’t really know the arrangement,” Mickey said under his breath and allowed himself another peek at Ian’s body. God-fucking-dammit, Sal.

Since he was no longer struggling to place Mickey, remembering Sal was no longer a problem. That didn’t mean he was problem free. “Right now? I can’t go anywhere right now. I have a shit ton of homework and a shift later tonight. He didn’t even call to ask or anything. He can’t expect me to just up and—”

Mickey clicked his tongue. It was a low, soft sound that miraculously managed to cut through Ian’s ranting and arrested his attention. Mickey eyed him evenly while he took another pull of his cigarette. “Wasn’t a request, Red.”

Besides the ability to wear the hell out of an expensive suit, apparently Mickey had been gifted with the menace absent from his brothers. Ian was now a very confused mix of nervous and turned-on and he had no idea where to go with it.

“No, of course it wasn’t,” Ian sighed and hoped he could just get this interlude with Sal over with quickly after he made it clear he wasn’t an on-call service.

“Now you’re getting it. So how about you get pretty and me and you take a ride?” Mickey raised an eyebrow before his eyes dropped down to Red’s body again. Red really needed put a shirt on, and Mickey needed to get a grip. “I’ll be downstairs, black Escalade across the street.”

“Yeah, okay, give me a minute,” Ian sighed and retreated into his studio apartment.

Mickey waited until the door closed and Ian had fully disappeared from view, before he found the strength to move. Mickey had never been struck by lightning before, but he had a fair idea that it would be a very similar experience to whatever the fuck just happened to him. Oh, this wasn’t good; this wasn’t good at all.

Things weren’t much different on the other side of the door. Ian was left reeling and confused about what the hell just happened to him. _That’s_ Mickey? What the hell? Ian wasn’t really sure what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. Alright, so Mickey Milkovich was more attractive than he had imagined, way more attractive, but he’d met tons of hot guys, been attracted to some, but this was insane. He took a minute and tried to shake himself out of it and went looking for a shirt.

Something had definitely gone haywire somewhere, because he found himself staring at his shirts, wondering which one would make the hardest impact on a guy he just met five minutes before. He tried to focus, but still chose a tight green shirt, quickly gathered all his things and hurriedly made his way down to Mickey Milkovich.

* * *

Mickey tensed when Ian emerged from the building and headed straight for him. He had spent the last few minutes trying to convince himself that he’d hallucinated a smoking hot redhead and someone far more appropriate and expected would appear. He was wrong, and Ian was coming like a bad storm. Shit.

Ian climbed into the front passenger seat and grinned goofily at Mickey, who glanced back suspiciously and apprehensively. There was another odd moment of silence, with neither of them knowing what to do or say until Mickey remembered he was supposed to be taking Ian to Sal.

“Yeah, okay,” Mickey mumbled to himself and finally started the car.

They drove in silence for a while, both giving the other sidelong glances as the car sped towards the hotel. Ian squirmed, antsy and chafing under the heavy silence.

“So, you’re Mickey… I’ve heard a lot about you,” Ian offered nervously.

“Yeah? From who?”

Ian scratched at his cheek, a little flummoxed at the curt dryness. “Um, I don’t know, here and there. Mostly from Iggy I guess.”

“Iggy has problems keeping his mouth shut,” Mickey sniffed, “I’ll find a way to cure that one day.”

And now he had gotten Iggy in trouble with his brother—great. Ian tried to follow Iggy’s advice about not talking too much, but found his mouth moving before he could stop it.

“So, how’s your day going?” Ian asked and got some side-eye for his consideration.

“How’s my fucking day going?” Mickey replied a little incredulously. The question actually managed to throw him for a loop. None of Sal’s lovers even pretended to care about him and his brothers in the early stages, so Mickey was surprised into answering. “I made a few runs, went to a funeral then came straight here to get your ass. That’s how my day’s been going so far.”

 Well at least that explained the sombreness of the suit, not that it subtracted anything from the deliciousness of it. That suit raised a lot of questions in Ian, like how long would it take to strip a suit like that off someone, and just what lay beneath it? Ian decided it was more prudent to keep that line of questioning to himself.

“So, whose funeral was it?” Ian continued his interrogation, earning more annoyed sidelong glances.

“Nobody you know,” Mickey replied, a hint of warning in his tone. They fell into an odd silence and Ian struggled to stay quiet despite the burning interest welling up inside him.

 _“Stop talking, stop talking, you’re being annoying,”_ his brain warned but his mouth was moving before anything else could stop it. “So…how did they die?”

“He caught a bad fucking case of curiosity. That’s how he died!” Mickey snapped. Honestly, what the fuck was with this guy?

Ian didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. He knew he was being irritating and all kinds of stupid with his questions and his nosiness, especially with Mickey, who seemed genuinely scary and on the verge of throttling him. What was even stranger was that despite Mickey’s evident annoyance with him, Ian didn’t feel particularly scared. He was actually finding the grumpiness weirdly adorable even; further evidence his brain was eroding.

Ian managed to hold out a few minutes more before his lips were moving again with absolutely zero input from his brain.

“So you were in jail, right? What were you in for?”

Ian almost yelped when Mickey suddenly swung the car to the curb and screeched to a halt. There was a tense silence before Mickey leaned forward and flipped on the stereo, flooding the car with opera at an almost ear splitting volume. Mickey then leaned back in his seat and seemed to count to ten, and Ian got legitimately scared very, very quickly.

“I’m going to ask you something,” Mickey began quietly despite the yowling aria swirling around them, “and I’m going to need you to answer honestly, okay?” Mickey looked inquiringly at Ian and waited for his nod. “Are you wired?”

“Huh?” Ian asked, nonplussed.

“Are.You.Wired?” Mickey repeated and levelled Ian with a hard stare.

“I…I don’t know. Maybe? I had a couple Red Bulls earlier…”

That answer was so mind numbingly stupid that Mickey almost forgot himself for a moment and burst out laughing. He stared at Ian in disbelief, sucking hard on his lower lip to keep the laughter at bay. He stared ahead at the road winding before them and tried to regain his composure. He took a minute to look everywhere but at Ian and put his game face back on.

“Wired as in snitch wired, Red; wired up by the Feds,” Mickey said slowly, and Ian was aghast.

“No way! What the fuck?!”

Ian immediately lifted his shirt—a little too eagerly in Mickey’s estimation—and showed off the chiselled stomach beneath it. Not that there was anywhere to hide a wire under a shirt that snug. Mickey had spent the last fifteen minutes wondering how the hell Ian was breathing in that thing, and if he should get him to take it off… for health purposes.

Mickey forgot what it was he was supposed to be doing for a moment as he stared at the washboard abs and listened as his car seemed to sing their praises. He snapped out of it, ignored the gorgeous moron across from him and reached between Ian’s legs for his backpack.

For a glorious moment, Ian thought he was about to get lucky, but was quickly dismayed when Mickey grabbed his bag. He blinked as Mickey opened it up and started rifling through the contents of textbooks and papers.

“You’re in college?!” Mickey asked—a surprising discovery for a number of reasons. He removed each item from the bag, flipping through textbooks and tossing them unceremoniously into Ian’s lap. When he had emptied the bag, he ran his fingers along the seams, and then, to Ian’s horror, whipped out a butterfly knife from a coat pocket and prepared to eviscerate Ian’s bag.

“Don’t you cut my fucking bag!” Ian demanded and met Mickey’s eyes defiantly when the other man turned to him slowly.

“Excuse me?”

“That bag was a gift from my little sister, who is way fucking scarier than anything you could ever hope to be,” Ian said, “so don’t rip up my shit, because you have no right and I’m no fucking snitch!”

Mickey raised an eyebrow while Ian put his foot down. Red was lucky; defiance was a super hot look for him. Mickey pocketed the knife and dropped the bag in Ian’s lap.

“I’ll take your word for it this time, but enough with the stupid fucking questions.”

* * *

They managed to make it to the hotel without further incident or manslaughter. For the first time since this whole mess started Ian felt what he could only describe as the hot blush of embarrassment as Mickey knocked on Sal’s room door. He could feel Mickey’s eyes on him as they waited for Sal to open up, and he practically dived in as soon as the door cracked open.

“You ordered room service?” Mickey said dryly and Sal snorted his amusement.

“Look at him, huh,” Sal said to Ian as he smoothed out Mickey’s collar and adjusted his tie, “knows fuck all about anything else, but can certainly wear a suit.”

“Yeah,” Ian agreed, for there was certainly no denying that. He smirked a little, feeling better and watching with growing amusement as Mickey transformed into an impatient little boy forced to stay still while his father fussed over him.

“Now I just need to send you on a run with some sun so you can try and get a little colour, huh?” Sal patted Mickey’s face, “how was the funeral? You paid our respects to the widow Donati?”

“Yeah, it was alright, not a real big turnout, but still.” Mickey caught Ian’s eye over Sal’s shoulder and glared at him for his amusement. Ian only grinned harder, but turned his back to unpack his homework. Again, Mickey forgot himself and was left staring. Fortunately, Sal took his gawking simply as Mickey doing his usual assessment.

“So, what do you think, huh?” Sal whispered and laughed when Mickey raised an eyebrow at him that said everything, “Yeah, I know, I know…he’s a new flavour and everything, but I’m keeping up. He’s special, that one, seriously. He’s not getting away.

* * *

“What the fuck?!” Mickey burst out the second he hit the first basement step of the pool house, and his four idiot brothers nearly killed themselves laughing around the card table.

“We told you!” Tony nodded, “what did we fucking say? Horse of a different breed.”

“I just…what the fuck?” Mickey sat on the couch in a daze, nowhere close to having recuperated for meeting Ian Gallagher.

“Sal has lost his mind,” Jaime said, “running around with a dude a third his age isn’t even the fucking worst. Fucking ridiculous…”

“Where did he even find this one?” Mickey looked over the back of the couch at his brothers.

“Boys’ Town; go-go dancer from some fucking club,” Tony informed, “we didn’t know Boys’ Town even had it like that. We’d have picked out something nice for you. Shit, you like the redheads, right? We’d have put this one on ice if Sal hadn’t nabbed him first.”

“You wouldn’t have been doing me any favours. He has a motor mouth that doesn’t stop running. Sal can keep him.”

His brothers went back to their game and Mickey stretched out on the couch, trying to process what the hell had just happened to him. Shit, maybe he should have been scoping out Boys’ Town sooner. The whole meeting had been an utter shock, especially the electric physical attraction; but in the end, that was neither here nor there. Mickey fully intended to get over it quickly and grow accustomed and blasé to Ian Gallagher and his particular brand of nonsense. He had to, or else he was going to be in for a world of trouble.


	5. Slow Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end notes for a short glossary.
> 
> Please tell me your thoughts! Feedback is wonderful.

“So a guy walks into his therapist’s office, buck naked except for a little bit of Saran wrap. The therapist looks at him and says ‘well I can clearly see your nuts!’”

Mickey slowly and deliberately lit a cigarette while he stared askance at a waiting and expectant Ian. This was Mickey’s coping mechanism for dealing with Ian and his plethora of jokes, random facts and observations. Mickey would wait until Ian got into the car, brace for his latest nonsense and quickly light up, using the cigarette to cover his knee jerk reaction, which was usually—to Mickey’s horror—dumb, appreciative laughter. Ian seemed to be on a mission to break the ice and get Mickey to engage him, and constant chatter and a barrage of lame jokes were his weapons of choice. Ian Gallagher was going to be hell on Mickey’s lungs. Hell, Gallagher was a danger to Mickey’s general health on a number of levels.

It had been a couple of weeks since Mickey had assumed his duties as Ian’s driver, and Mickey hated to admit it, but he was thawing and he had no idea how to stop it. They were slowly relaxing in increments, feeling each other out a little more with each car ride. Well Mickey was; Ian seemed to be labouring under the impression that they were already Thelma and Louise. Still, it was hard for Mickey to be proof against that face, and that smile, and that eager puppy lameness. Shit, he didn’t want to be Ian’s friend. It was bad enough that he had the hots for the idiot; actually liking him would be disastrous. So Mickey puffed on his cigarette and stared at his passenger, stone faced and unresponsive.

Ian was incorrigible and simply rolled his eyes at Mickey. “Nothing, huh? I’m starting to think you’re defective. What kind of person doesn’t laugh at a funny joke?”

“Tell a funny joke and maybe I’ll laugh,” Mickey retorted before silently berating himself. _Damn it, don’t engage._ Every word Mickey spoke was like a personal victory to Ian, and just seemed to encourage him further.

“I didn’t realize you were so discerning. You tell a joke then.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey grumbled and glared directly ahead, trying his damndest not to get charmed by the idiot next to him. His brothers might have folded, but he could hardly afford to.

“Come on, you’ve got to know at least one joke, right?” Ian persisted. “I heard you were funny.”

Mickey looked over at him, stiffening a little. “What do you mean I'm funny?”

Ian was nonplussed by the question and noted the subtle shift in Mickey’s body language. Mickey could be just as prickly and unsettling as Sal, and just as random. Ian was quickly nervous. “Um, I don’t know? You can tell a joke? Like funny ha ha?”

Mickey only seemed to get more annoyed. “What do you mean, you mean the way I talk? What?”

Ian was only plunging deeper into confusion. “No, just…I mean, just funny? I don’t—”

Mickey was scowling, his grip tight on the steering wheel. “You mean, let me understand this cause, you know maybe it's me, I'm a little fucked up maybe, but I'm funny how? I mean funny like I'm a clown, I amuse you? I make you laugh; I'm here to fucking amuse you? What do you mean funny, funny how? How am I funny?!”

The light bulb finally went off in Ian’s head and he gaped at Mickey before losing it. “Oh my fucking god!” Ian cracked up, his tension leaving his body in a whoosh as he laughed, “how fucking long were you waiting for someone to set _that_ up?!”

Mickey’s lips twitched, “a while,” he admitted. Shit, now why did he do that? Why couldn’t he just stick to his resolve about not engaging? He gave Ian a sidelong glance, watching him crack up from a mixture of relief and amusement. He liked Ian’s laugh. It was open, uninhibited, and reckless, just like Ian seemed to be. Dangerous would be a more accurate term. Mickey was getting charmed right down to his shoes and he couldn’t seem to do a thing to stop it.

“A while, huh? Not a lot of opportunity for _Goodfellas_ quotes in your line of work?” Ian asked after he stopped laughing.

“Surprisingly not,” Mickey found himself grinning from Ian’s infectious energy. “I get to use lots of stuff from _the Godfather_ , but _Goodfellas_ ,” Mickey shook his head before finally realizing that the light had changed to green just in the nick of time. Luckily there had been no one behind them.

Ian’s heart did a series of flips the moment Mickey started grinning. So it was as he had always suspected; Mickey Milkovich had an amazing smile. It had been worth almost having a coronary to get to see it, and now Ian was determined to keep him smiling, and maybe even get him to laugh.

* * *

When the laugh came, it caught them both off guard. Ian had climbed into the car in the supermarket parking lot, fresh off his shift and pissed that Sal had summoned him without warning yet again. Despite his annoyance, Ian displaced his pique to a much safer target.

“Ugh, guys are so gross sometimes,” Ian groused while Mickey waited, cigarette and lighter at the ready. “This guy had been circling me like a vulture all day, just coming in and out, buying random shit. I was like dude, just come out and say whatever so I can shut you down already. Finally, just before my shift ends, he plops down a pack of magnums in front of me, looks me dead in the face and says—and I shit you not—‘you got any Slim Jims in this shithole?’ I mean what the fuck?”

Mickey desperately tried to light his cigarette in time and keep his composure, but it was all in vain. He snorted, then snickered, then lost it completely and draped himself over the steering wheel, laughing. Ian was flabbergasted.

“Seriously?” Ian gaped at the laughing man incredulously. “Seriously?! This? This is your humour?!”

Ian’s indignation only fuelled Mickey’s amusement and he cracked up even harder. The more he tried to get himself under control, the worse his giggle-fit became.

“I can’t believe this,” Ian huffed, though he was fighting back his own laughter from watching Mickey laugh hysterically. “I bring you gems, real jokes, Comedy Central  material, but you lose your shit over ass ploughing? I cast my pearls before swine. I can’t even look at you right now.”

Mickey flailed one hand, trying desperately to get himself under control and mount some sort of defence. “Now that’s funny,” he gasped.

“Bullshit it’s funny, you ass,” Ian laughed, “you’re such a dork. You’re a stealth dork.”

Mickey hiccupped and wiped at his face, “look, that come on works on so many levels.”

“Sure…”

“It’s clever, alright?!”

“No it’s not; it’s disgusting, and you’re gross for liking it.”

Mickey leaned back in his seat and beamed at Ian. “Alright man, whatever you say. The dude probably fucked it up with his delivery, but I guarantee you, if the right dude with the right attitude said that shit to you? Your panties would be dropping so fast.”

Ian sniffed, his heart suddenly thumping painfully in his chest, “yeah, whatever…maybe.” He fussed with his bag on his lap and glanced across at Mickey shyly. They both fell silent, and a charged, tense silence fell over them.

Ian didn’t know what he was doing, but he knew he needed to stop. He didn’t know what Mickey’s sexuality was, but he knew he was spending way too much time lately thinking about it and wondering about things he had no business wondering about. When Mickey wasn’t doing his tough guy routine and trying his best to put emotional distance between them, the way he looked at Ian sometimes made him sizzle down to his toes. Maybe it wasn’t sexual, maybe Mickey just had the attitude and one of those faces that made it seem as if he was always stripping Ian in his head. What Ian knew for sure was that he already had a boyfriend and a full plate that was overflowing. Mickey’s eyes and mouth and hands and ass were the absolute last things he needed to focus on.

Mickey clicked his tongue and turned over the engine, “let’s go. Sal gets antsy when you make him wait.”

* * *

They were in the North side and halfway to the hotel when Mickey’s phone rang. He put in on speaker and was soon in conversation with a woman with a heavy Russian accent. Ian wasn’t listening. He had spent the last fifteen minutes trying to get some reading done, but had been hopelessly distracted by Mickey’s hands instead.

Mickey had an odd habit. Every time he slowed the car or stopped for whatever reason, Mickey’s right hand would flutter away from the wheel and settle on the gear shift without fail. Ian had no idea why Mickey did that, since there was rarely any need to touch the gearshift throughout the length of their journey. Yet, Mickey did it automatically, and it was one of the many extremely distracting things about Mickey Milkovich and right then, it was bordering on torture for Ian.

Mickey didn’t just rest his hand on the stick, but ran his hand compulsively over it, since it seemed impossible for Mickey to ever be completely still. Ian watched, spellbound, as Mickey trailed his hand smoothly and slowly up and down the length of the stick, occasionally palming the bulbous knob at the top and working his way back down again. Sometimes Ian swore that Mickey was fucking with him. He could feel sweat start to prickle at the back of his neck in anticipation as Mickey started his upstroke and held his breath as Mickey’s thumb began to swipe over the top.

“Hey, Red—”

“Jesus fuck, what?!” Ian snapped taking Mickey aback.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?!”

Ian swallowed and tried to clear the fog from his head, “I was just—I was studying,” he nodded to his book, beyond grateful for the heavy bag on his lap. “I—you startled me.”

“Huh, well try to take it down a notch,” Mickey eyed him suspiciously. “Look, I have a small issue I have to take care of. You mind if I take a little detour? I’ll let Sal know it’s my fault.”

More time with Mickey, less time with Sal—total no brainer. Ian sighed internally when he realized what he’d just thought. He needed to get a grip. Sal was his boyfriend and the one he should want to spend all his time with. Ian was going to have a serious talk with himself in his bathroom mirror the minute he got home. He eventually realized that Mickey was eyeing him curiously.

“What?”

“You feeling okay?” Mickey asked, taking in Ian’s flushed face, “want me to turn down the heat a little?”

If only he could.

* * *

Ian’s curiosity grew as Mickey pulled into the driveway of a large colonial style house, tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac in a quiet North side neighbourhood. To his surprise, Mickey told him that he could come in, and Ian was out of the car and at Mickey’s heels before Mickey could even properly close his car door.

Ian wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the bevy of lingerie-clad women strolling about the tastefully decorated house. In the large sitting room to the right were four large couches, two of them occupied by whom Ian assumed were clients.  Mickey headed into the center of the room with Ian close behind, and Ian could see there were a few more clients in the sun room to the left. A moment later, they were approached by a voluptuous, red haired, young woman. She draped herself over Mickey and smirked up at him.

“Hi, daddy.”

Mickey snorted loudly, “daddy?! I see you’re enjoying yourself already.”

She tossed her hair and looked up at him expectantly. “Well, you like?”

Mickey curled a finger in Trish’s hair and shot a glance over at a glaring Ian. Her hair was a few shades warmer than Ian’s but Mickey figured it would do—it suited her perfectly.

“It’s nice,” he nodded, “nothing beats Jessica Rabbit. Now go make some money.”

She sauntered away towards the sitting room just as another woman stomped purposefully down the winding stairs.

“So you are here,” she said and Ian immediately recognized the Russian accent as the caller from earlier. “It took you long enough. Who is this?” she eyed Ian suspiciously as she came to a stop before Mickey.

Mickey dryly made the introductions. “Sal’s new side piece, bottom bitch; bottom bitch, side piece.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to Ian. “Adorable, isn’t he? You just want to squeeze cheeks until they rip right off.” She extended a hand to Ian and he took it. “Svetlana.”

“Ian,” he replied.

Mickey nodded to the empty couch in the sitting room, “pop a squat. I shouldn’t take too long.”

Ian nodded and made his way over to the couch, carefully avoiding making eye contact with the men and women milling about that were waiting for services. He tried reading while he waited, but his gaze eventually found its way back to Mickey.

“He’s young,” Svetlana sniffed, “So it’s true; no fool like old fool.”

“Hmm,” Mickey hummed his agreement and his eyes wandered back to Ian, who quickly looked down at his book pretending to read.

“You are not fool… most of the time,” Svetlana withered, “do not start now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You get look in your eye,” Svetlana continued, “he’s Sal’s; you don’t look.”

Mickey huffed and dipped his head while he tugged guiltily at his coat sleeves. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Where’s the john?”

Svetlana led him into the study, where a sandy haired, middle-aged man sat waiting patiently. He looked like someone’s accountant—average height, with grey eyes within a plain, spectacled face. He was unremarkable to the point of being wallpaper, so Mickey knew he was in for a doozy.

“Hey,” Mickey greeted and closed the door behind him, leaving them alone in the study.

The man shot to his feet, clearly nervous. “Hello, sir.”

Mickey waved him down and indicated that the man should resume his seat. “It’s just Mickey.”

“Ah yes, I’m…John.”

Mickey bit back a smile, “yeah, of course you are. So I heard what you needed required some set up?”

The man nodded and adjusted his glasses. “I hope you don’t find requirements too strange. It’s just that I don’t have much other recourse,” John hesitated, “My job is so stressful and I don’t have a lot of outlets.”

Mickey quickly put him at ease. “Hey man, don’t worry about it. We’ve accommodated some crazy shit you wouldn’t believe. As long as my girls stay safe and we follow all the rules, let your freak flag fly.”

The man nodded and allowed himself a small smile. He was a little shocked, but soothed by Mickey’s frankness. He then set about describing exactly what he required and the complexities of the set up.

“Hmm, I think we can manage that,” Mickey nodded, “any particular type of girl?”

The man shook his head. “I don’t really have a strong preference for a particular type. I just need the conditions to be right.”

“Yeah, I got you.”

Mickey nodded again and told the man to wait a while. He made his way back out to a waiting Svetlana. “Government freak show.”

Her spine straightened, Mickey’s words putting her on edge. “You think he is plant?”

“Nah, not with a kink that specific.”

“We accommodate?”

Mickey nodded and cast an eye around the house. “Who do you think will be down for that shit?”

“Maybe new girl? She has appetite like shark.”

“She’s on probation for now. I need a pro—someone who can get stuff out of him,” Mickey said. “Get Natasha and set up the video room. I want him on tape from start to finish and I want his face showing clear as day.”

Svetlana’s eyes flicked towards the study door. “You think he might be useful?”

“Couldn’t hurt… You know what car he came here in?”

* * *

Despite the busy bordello scene around him, Ian actually managed to get a little reading done. That is until Mickey wandered out again and Ian could not tear his eyes away. He watched as Mickey and Svetlana huddled in a corner and spoke in hushed tones. It was a sign of how haywire his thinking and priorities had become that he was agonizing over the possible nature of Mickey’s relationship with Svetlana rather than the fact that Mickey had just revealed himself as a freaking pimp. Ian was distracted from his thoughts by a warm body pressing against him. The young woman from earlier had joined him on the couch.

“Hi, I’m Trish,” she parted her robe to give a better view of her garter and stockings set up. “Do you want some company?”

Trish might look like the love child of Rita Hayworth and Veronica Lake, but Ian was not a fan.  

“Sis, you are so barking up the wrong tree right now,” he informed her and turned his attention firmly back to his books. She cocked her head and blinked at him curiously, a little bewildered by the rejection.

“What the hell are you doing?” Mickey asked Trish after he materialized in front of them. “Does he look like he needs to pay for it? Find an actual customer.” Mickey glanced around and eventually nodded at a florid gentleman who looked quite overwhelmed by his surroundings. “How about him? Dude’s so horny, he’s growing antlers over there.”

Trish was not impressed, “he looks like he’d be a terrible lay. Three minutes at best,” she pouted.

Ian thought Mickey would get angry at her reluctance and grew uncomfortable at the thought of seeing some kind of pimp-style discipline. To his surprise, Mickey looked over at the john in question, appeared to reassess him and actually agreed with Trish.

“Yeah, probably; but you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have the facts of life,” Mickey waved her off, and she sighed and got up to head over to him. “Now go take care of him, please? Thank you.”

Ian was fighting back a smile so hard his face was cramping. It didn’t escape Mickey’s notice.

“What the fuck are you smiling about?”

“ _The Facts of Life_? Really, dork?” Ian said, “you motivate your prostitutes with _the Facts of Life_?”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

They watched as Trish sauntered over to the john, whose eyes grew wider and wider with each step of her approach. She greeted him warmly, asking if he wanted her company, and rested her hand on his shoulder. The man erupted like a volcano.

“Ew,” Mickey and Ian said in unison, grossed out, but a little empathetic.

Trish snatched her hand back in horror and Ian nearly ruptured his spleen trying not to laugh. It didn’t help when Svetlana hurried over to scowl her displeasure at the mortified man.

“Did you make mess in my living room?” she hissed at him before yelling over to Mickey, “do we still charge?”

“Of fucking course we do,” Mickey replied and Ian was sputtering. Mickey ignored him, but seemed to gentle his stance a bit. “Charge him half rate.”

Ian was close to tears and Mickey looked down at him, grinning. “You better not be laughing at my place or my girls. The service is good and my girls are pros, but there’s no accounting for the clientele sometimes.” He was distracted again by the man protesting unhappily that he shouldn’t have to pay for a service he didn’t use. “Hey, Johnny Rocket, don’t make me come over there. Pay the lady and say thank you for a job well done. One minute motherfucker,” Mickey mumbled under his breath before catching Ian grinning goofily at him. “What? Shut up with your face,” he grumbled before turning his narrowed gaze back to the john, Trish and Svetlana.

That was the precise moment Ian realized that he could have all the get-a-grip talks in as many bathroom mirrors as he could manage. It wouldn’t change the fact that he had it bad for Mickey Milkovich. Ian hoped to god that Mickey wasn’t gay and that his crush was hopeless, because otherwise, he was in for a world of trouble.

* * *

“Alley cat!”

Alexis squawked and giggled as Ian snuck up on her and swung her into the air. He put her down, draped an arm over her shoulder and dragged her along towards the supermarket.

“Tell me you did the math homework,” he bumped her happily as they walked along. “I took look one at it and fizzled.”

“Listen to the future business major,” she teased, “I did the math homework if you did the communications assignment.”

“We’ll swap after work,” Ian nodded and took a deep breath, “nice day, isn’t it?”

Alex raised an eyebrow as Ian practically bounced along as they turned into the supermarket lot. At some points it even sounded like he was humming. He was clearly in the best mood and it was positively infectious. Still, this was all just a little suspicious.

“What’s with you?” Alex asked pointedly.

“Hmm?”

“You look like you’re on cloud nine over there.”

Ian shrugged it off, “I don’t’ know. Just in a good mood, I guess.”

“Anything new going on?” Alex prodded gently, and her eyebrow shot a little higher when he seemed to hesitate. Instead of dishing, he simply smiled at her and shook his head.

“Things going okay with the Salamander?” Alex asked, wondering if maybe Ian was in a good mood over some grand romantic gesture.

“Forget Sal,” Ian said with such breezy dismissiveness, Alex was nearly blown away. She decided not to push it any further. Whatever it was, Ian wasn’t ready to tell her yet. For now, she was perfectly willing to let her friend be wonderfully, _suspiciously_ happy.

* * *

A few hours later, Alex grabbed her pouch and headed over to her friend. “Bathroom break?” she asked and Ian nodded. They headed to the employee men’s room and Ian went in first, doing a quick check of the stalls while Alex bounced in place by the door.

“Clear,” Ian said and quickly stepped out of the way while she made a beeline for a stall. He locked the door and waited, all the while listening to the sounds of Alex shuffling about and muttering in irritation.

“Fucking adhesive is weak as shit on this roll,” she called out. Finally she re-emerged, relieved and annoyed all at the same time. “That was a photo finish; shouldn’t have had all that tea.”

“I know I’ve asked this before, but aren’t there tucks that allow you to pee without having to do the whole thing over?”

“Yeah, but none of them are as good as this one. I’d rather do the whole thing over than use a technique that isn’t as tight and smooth,” Alex washed her hands and looked tiredly into the mirror, making note of all her problem areas.

Ian frowned at her, “you okay?”

Alex sighed and fluffed her hair. She twisted from side to side, frowning at her reflection from a number of angles. “Yeah, just a little tired. It’s been one of those days.”

It was more that it had been one of those weeks, months, years, forever. She retrieved her small makeup kit from her pouch and began touching up. “Just wish it would all go away sometimes.”

Ian shifted, his concern growing steadily, “Allie…”

Alexis sighed and immediately regretted her dire tone. This was their lives, always scanning each other’s words and actions for red flags, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice in order to drag the other back from the edge. She waved him off.

“Nothing like that, please don’t freak out,” she looked at him pointedly. “It’s just that I went to a club last night and ran into the holy trinity of transphobic douchebags. First it was Mr. ‘oh, I’m not gay,’ followed by Sir ‘pre-op or post-op?’ Number three had me going for a while until I realized he has a serious chicks with dicks fetish, with heavy emphasis on the dicks. I told him I don’t use it, I don’t like it and I don’t want it, so of course he peaced the fuck out.”

“I just want a day when I don’t feel gross,” she continued before she took a deep breath and eyed the mirror with a steely gaze. “My hair looks really healthy today!” she said chirpily, “very glossy! I have great skin; it takes make up very well. My lips look really soft,” she said before muttering under her breath, “granted, they could be a little fuller.”

“Uh uh,” Ian chastised her, “you’re not supposed to put qualifiers in your affirmations.”

“Ugh, I can’t believe Lester has us doing this affirmations bullshit. Does it work for you?”

Ian shrugged, “sometimes… but I’m not always buying what I’m selling.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Alex checked her watch and gathered up her things. “But in other news, tomorrow it’s my one year anniversary for my HRT, so you know… whoo!”

“Shit, it’s been a year already?” Ian hugged Alex close, “we need to celebrate.”

Alex smiled tiredly into his shirt, “yeah, just get me a spiro cake with an oestrogen ganache. I’ll binge and maybe I’ll wake up the next day as Wonder Woman.”

* * *

Ian could tell he was there the second he walked into the club. It was the weirdest thing that he was so certain. He couldn’t see Mickey; he couldn’t hear him over the powerful, driving beats. It was the way the fine hairs on his body slowly stood on end and the delicious shivers coursed through his body that alerted him that Mickey was somewhere nearby.

Ian was on stage, bathed in light and moving in time to the music. He loved every second of it. He never felt more powerful or in control than when he was in the spotlight, bare, every eye on him and wanting him while the adrenaline pounded through him. The money was a huge benefit, but this feeling was the true allure that drew him back after he started his treatment.

He searched fruitlessly for a few minutes before spotting Mickey when he stepped out of the shadows to get closer to Ian’s stage. Ian watched as Mickey leaned on the rail and slowly sipped his drink, blue eyes never leaving Ian. Ian wasn’t suppose to dwell on one patron too long when he was on stage—that was what private dances were for—but he honestly couldn’t help it. Mickey looked so good. It was the closest Ian had come to seeing him dressed down, in a black T-shirt and jeans, and a leather jacket. Ian decided he loved it just as much as the suits.

There had to be something there, right? The way Mickey was looking at him, turning him inside out, there was no way that could just be his imagination, could it? Shit—how was it possible to get this fucked up in a couple of weeks? The moment Ian got his break, he stepped off stage and headed straight for Mickey.

“Hey,” Ian sounded wired and breathless, and for once it had nothing to do with his set on stage. “What are you doing here?”

Mickey took a measured drag of his cigarette. _Holy fucking shit._ He knew what he’d be dreaming about the second he fell asleep that night. Ian’s outfit was ridiculous in theory—tiny gold shorts, a dumb tie and not much else—but it made Mickey’s mouth water. The obscene dancing hadn’t helped either. Mickey had been magnetized and mesmerized from the second he stepped into the club. Sal never stood a chance.

“Sal sent me.”

“Oh,” Ian was crestfallen. It had been a long shot, but he had hoped it was a case of Mickey just having to see him.

“Says to make sure you get home safely,” _and alone,_ Mickey added silently.

“Yeah, that’s really not necessary,” Ian crossed his arms over his bare chest and jutted out his chin.

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Red,” Mickey dragged on his cigarette and let his eyes slide down Ian’s body, “the night is dark and full of terrors and creepy old fucks; but rumour has it you’re into that.”

“Among other things,” Ian said, “so, twenty-five bucks gets you a dance.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and Ian’s lips hitched into a half-smile.

“Sorry, I have to offer if I’m going to talk to you for more than a few seconds. Don’t wanna dance, gotta move on,” Ian said before adding, “fifty bucks gets you the champagne room.” He was taking a risk engaging Mickey in that way, but he didn’t care. He was feeling high, empowered and horny, and not in the best space for good decision making. He watched Mickey lick his lips slowly before drawing his lower lip into his mouth. Ian was fairly certain this was some upper echelon of hell.

“What happens in the champagne room?”

 _“Whatever the fuck you want,”_ Ian thought to himself but said nothing out loud; only shrugged. Jesus, Mickey needed to either take him back there or let him go, because his shorts were going to do him no favours and keep no secrets in a couple of minutes.

For an agonizing minute, Mickey seemed to think it over before shaking his head, “sorry, not my bag. But I’ll be waiting for you when your shift’s over.”

* * *

“Open the door, but let me go in first.”

Ian was this close to strangling Mickey. It was bad enough Mickey had basically forced him to have a slapdash masturbatory session in the club’s bathroom while surrounded by countless couples going at it, but now he was delaying Ian from doing it properly and going the fuck to sleep. Ian had school in the morning. The last thing he needed was Mickey and his leather jacket and his hair idling in his apartment and winding him up again.

“Why?!”

“Following orders. I was told to do a check. Make sure bad guys like me aren’t in there hiding under your bed,” Mickey grinned at him, slow and sexy, and Ian wanted nothing more than to punch his stupid face in.

“I’m eight floors up and I’m a broke college student. Who’d be in there?”

“Let’s find out.”

Ian leaned against the door jamb and watched as Mickey inspected his tiny studio. There wasn’t much to see, a large bed with two small night tables on either side of it, next to the huge window to maximise natural light. Beyond the foot of the bed were Ian’s desk and chair and mounted bookshelf, then a chest of drawers. Mickey headed into the small kitchen at the rear of the apartment first, before peeking into the bathroom and working his way back up to the bed and Ian.

“Seems bad guy free,” Mickey said maddeningly, and ignored Ian’s tapping foot to examine the bed and window more closely, “Mmm…”

Okay, Mickey needed to leave. Mickey needed to leave now. “I have school in the morning,” Ian blurted out. By then he was almost sure Mickey was fucking with him. To his relief or disappointment—he wasn’t sure which—Mickey seemed to relent and strolled towards him to head out the door.

“I know you get pissed off when Sal doesn’t give you a heads up, so I’m giving you a heads up; he’s probably gonna want to see you tomorrow. So don’t get all pissy at me when I show up,” Mickey slid past Ian into the hallway, “sweet dreams, Red; nice place.”

* * *

True to his word, Mickey was there for Ian the following evening. Ian got into the car a little worse for wear—the effect of a fitful night followed by a long day of school.

“You look like hell,” Mickey observed after Ian threw himself into the seat.

“And yet you still wish you looked this good,” Ian shot Mickey a cheeky grin and was beyond thrilled when he got one back.

The drive was quiet and uneventful with Ian too tired to mount his usual social attack and Mickey actually contemplating a caffeine run just so he could get his Chatty Cathy Gallagher back. The peace of the moment was soon shattered by a phone call.

Ian had been expecting Svetlana to call with another Rub-and-Tug emergency, so he was surprised to hear Iggy’s panicked babbling over the phone.    

“Wait, what? Slow down, I can’t understand what the fuck you’re saying!” Mickey was clearly adept at translating Iggy’s gibberish, because Ian had yet to figure out heads or tails of what Iggy was saying, but Mickey was already flooring it. “Fuck, I’m on my way!”

It didn’t take long to figure out where they were when Mickey swung into the driveway of a sprawling North side estate. This was Sal’s place; this was Sal’s home. Ian looked at Mickey in a bit of a panic. He wasn’t allowed to come here; it was one of their rules, or rather, Sal’s wife’s rules. Ian stayed silent, because Mickey’s face was grim and they were speeding past the massive Tudor style house and heading around back.

Mickey screeched to a halt in front of the pool house, not that Ian recognised it as such. The two-story pool house was easily the size of the Gallagher house and was only given away by the large, ornate pool in front of it. Mickey had barely stopped the car before he was out and running into the house, and Ian quickly scrambled out to find out what the fuss was about. What he walked into was bedlam.

There had been only three of them inside: Sal, Iggy and Joey, but the ensuing chaos seemed to speak of a much larger number. Ian stepped in and was immediately hit so hard by the familiar madness of the scene, that it gave him a sense of vertigo. There was Sal, in a towering rage, looming over the cowering form of a terrified Joey. Iggy was in a corner by the front door, babbling incoherently and running his hands though his hair in agitation as Ian and Mickey came in.

“You stupid, useless piece of shit!” Sal roared and picked up the closest thing he could grab—a small vase—and smacked it on top of Joey, “useless, empty headed prick! Who the fuck do you think you are talking to me like that, huh?!”

Joey curled into a tighter fetal position, trying his damndest to protect his body while Sal laid into him. He babble-sobbed apologies as Sal’s ire only seemed to grow.

“I should have left you in the fucking gutter!”

“Where the fuck are Jaime and Tony?” Mickey hissed at Iggy as he rushed past, but Iggy only shook his head. Jaime and Tony had jobs and it hadn’t even occurred to Iggy to call them.

Ian watched as Mickey rushed straight into the fray and put himself between Sal and his brother. Sal was still roaring and tried to get past Mickey, but the young man only skipped around and kept himself squarely between Sal and his target, one hand extended pleadingly to calm Sal down.

Ian ventured closer and immediately figured out the situation. A couple rails of coke still sat atop a low center table, with liquor and random paraphernalia alongside. It was clear the three where partying together, getting high as kites before something went sour and chaos erupted. Mickey was calming Sal down, and the man’s roaring and violent twitching seemed to be subsiding, but Ian was still worried. He knew how it could be. Sometimes they’d be lulled in thinking the storm was dying down, only for it to get a second wind for it to redirect its focus. The last thing Ian wanted was for Sal’s drug fuelled rage to redirect to Mickey. He stepped forward and laid a hand on Sal’s shoulder. The older man’s skin was so hot to the touch, Ian almost yanked his hand away.

“Disrespecting me, Mickey, in my own fucking house,” Sal slurred, “talk to your fucking brother.”

Mickey’s eyes widened when Ian dropped a hand on Sal’s shoulder. Sal swung around at the touch, still in fight mode, and only barely managed to stop short when he saw that it was Ian.

“Ian, baby, what are you doing here?” Sal’s skin was fever hot and his eyes his dilated and unfocused. He smiled goofily up at Ian and grabbed him suddenly to hug him close. “She’d kill us both if she found you here,” he buried his face in Ian’s neck and inhaled.

Ian patted Sal on the back and rocked slowly in place in an effort to soothe and quiet him. “It’s done, right? We’re all okay now?”

Mickey watched Sal and Ian for a bit before running to his brother’s aid. Joey was still curled on the floor, in fear of Sal’s wrath.

“Hey, Joey, you okay?”

At his brother’s voice and touch, Joey slowly unfolded. The left side of his face was badly swollen and he looked plaintively at Mickey. “I didn’t even say nothing, Mick.”

“I know, I know,” Mickey sighed and cradled the side of his brother’s head gingerly. He then pulled him to his feet, “you’re okay, come on.” He was going to get Iggy and Joey out of there until he was certain the sight of them wouldn’t set Sal off again.

Sal was snuggled up to Ian, eyes closed, and contentedly humming _Fly me to the moon_ as the two of them swayed together. Ian kept rubbing Sal’s back soothingly and looked pointedly at a hesitating Mickey, indicating that he should get his battered and bruised brothers out of there.

Mickey was conflicted. Sal seemed worn out and happy now, but that could change in a minute. He wanted his brothers in a safe place, but he wasn’t keen on leaving Ian alone with Sal either.

“I’ll be fine,” Ian mouthed silently and jerked his head again telling Mickey to go.

“I’ll be right back,” Mickey promised and herded his brothers out.

Ian watched Mickey as he left, not even blinking until he was completely out of sight. He listened as the car sped away and then went back to swaying with Sal—both of them burning for entirely different reasons.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bottom Bitch - a prostitute who sits atop the hierarchy of prostitutes working for a particular pimp.  
> John - a person who uses the services of a prostitute  
> HRT - hormone replacement therapy  
> Spiro- Spironolactone: can used in conjunction with oestrogen for HRT for transwomen


	6. Love's Labour's Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think about what's happening so far. All feedback is appreciated.

Ian was out like a light the moment he got comfortable in the front seat of Mickey’s car. He had been tired from the start, and talking Sal down had been like caring for a colicky, volatile infant. Sal had finally calmed down right into sleep and Mickey had wasted no time getting Ian off the property.

Mickey kept stealing looks as Ian slept in the seat next to him. It was disturbing how strong the urge was to reach over and touch him, and Mickey squirmed in his seat as he fought against the temptation. He fidgeted with his hands and willed the light to change before he did something regrettable.

It wasn’t long before Ian was tossing his bag on the floor, yawning and stretching while he eyed his bed longingly. He was so focused on his plan to just peel off his clothes and fall into bed that he actually managed to forget that Mickey was behind him, still hanging by the door. He was quickly reminded just before he started tugging off his shirt.

“Hey, Gallagher,” Mickey tapped the door frame nervously when Ian turned to face him, “look, about what went down earlier—you helping with Sal and my brothers and everything—I just wanted to say thanks. You didn’t have to do that. You shouldn't have, to be honest.”

Ian waved him off and scratched the back of his neck tiredly. “Been there done that thousands of times. Don’t worry about it; it was nothing.”

“No, it wasn’t ‘nothing’,” Mickey said firmly, “when it comes to my family, it’s never ‘nothing.’ I owe you one, Gallagher.”

Ian smiled softly and nodded, growing shyer and warmer under Mickey’s steady, sincere gaze. “Yeah, okay then…so you owe me one.”

They stared at each other silently for a while, feeling that now familiar tension growing between them. Ian bounced on his heels slightly, his tiredness quickly dissipating while he got his charge out of being with Mickey. Neither of them seemed to know how to break the spell of the moment, or if they even wanted to.  Still, it couldn’t go on forever and Ian couldn’t help but push his luck a little further, now filled to the brim with the audacity of hope.

“Um, you want to come in for a little bit, maybe? I’ve got beer…”

Mickey couldn’t think of a worse possible idea, nor could he think of anything he wanted to do more right at that minute. He hesitated and tugged at the sleeves of his black overcoat.

“Nah, I should go,” Mickey replied, regretting it even as he was turning Ian down. Still it was the only smart option and Mickey couldn’t afford to slip. “You should get some sleep anyway.”

* * *

Mickey Milkovich was proving to be hell on Ian’s wallet.

There had to be a dozen guys lined around the platform, just waiting for him to make a little eye contact and make them feel special so they could stuff his shorts. Unfortunately, there was Mickey, leaning on his railing a short distance off, sipping his drink and burning Ian to a cinder with those blue eyes of his. Ian was powerless to look anywhere else. It was pathetic, but Ian couldn’t help it. On the plus side, he doubted he’d ever danced better than when he did when Mickey was around. It was just too bad he wasn’t reaping the maximum benefits.

Mickey headed outside near the end of Ian’s shift to get the car and bring it around. Ian wasn’t about to dawdle and scrambled to change so he could head out and join him. Ian was halfway to the door when Martin stopped him and asked to speak with him privately and Ian had no choice but to follow the man to his small office around the back. Ian tapped his foot impatiently as the manager smoothed his handlebar moustache, and Martin decided to just dive right into it.

“Look, Ian, I’m going to have to let you go.”

It took Ian a second to process what Martin was saying, and he blinked at him nonplussed until he regained the power of speech. “What?”

Martin shrugged and fiddled about straightening the papers on his desk. “This isn’t working out anymore.”

“What? Why?!” Ian’s panic quickly built and he struggled to think of what he could possibly have done. “What did I do?!” Ian’s thoughts fell to Mickey and the way he had been hyper-focused on him during his sets. But Mickey had only been to the club twice and Ian doubted Martin or anyone else had caught on yet to Ian’s massive crush and how it was affecting his tips. “I’m one of the most requested dancers here. I need this job—”

Martin wasn’t long on patience and rolled his eyes at Ian. “You can’t need a job that badly with the type of crowd you’re rolling with now,” he sneered. “Look, he doesn’t want you dancing; you’re not dancing. I’m not about to risk my livelihood over one twink.”

It all fell into place instantly, and all Ian could do was glower hotly for a second before storming out. He burst out and took a few heaving breaths in the cold night air before zeroing in on Mickey who had just pulled up across the street. He stomped over and smacked Mickey’s door.

“You fucking owe me one, huh?!” Ian seethed while Mickey’s brow furrowed in confusion. “It’s not enough that he sends you to crowd me and take me home and sweep my fucking apartment for ‘danger,’ but he has to take my fucking job too?!”

Mickey frowned and got out of the car. He didn’t know what had happened in the ten minutes since he left the club, but Ian looked like he was losing it.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Gallagher?”

“I needed this job!” Ian cried, “you don’t understand; he doesn’t understand! I have school and I need the money and this is the only place that I can—that I feel like I’m—” Ian sputtered, unable to explain the insanity of needing a place like the White Swallow.

“What are you on about?!”

“Sal got me fired!” Ian yelled in Mickey’s face, “fuck this, you don’t know anything.” Ian pulled out his phone and quickly brought up Sal’s number, but before he had the chance to dial, Mickey had whipped it out of his hand.

“Hey, whoa, okay,” Mickey danced out of reach when Ian grabbed for his phone, “come on, let’s not do anything hasty here. You’re all worked up; maybe wait a bit and cool down before you talk to him.”

“Why the fuck should I calm down first?!” Ian seethed, “I want to talk to him now.”

“Alright, look,” Mickey said softly, trying is best to calm Ian and not have him call Sal in the middle of the night in a rage. “Let’s just take it one thing at a time first, okay? Let’s get all the information here; you’re not even sure of anything,” Mickey pointed out, though he knew full well that Sal more than likely had made the phone call that got Ian fired. Still, he needed to buy time. “You got severance?”

Ian looked at Mickey as if he was crazy. “Severance? What? No, it’s a gay club in fucking Boys’ Town. We’re not exactly unionized.”

“You still got rights. Let’s handle this first,” Mickey said and headed back towards the club, still in possession of Ian’s cell phone. Ian watched him go, conflicted and uncertain, but shook himself when Mickey yelled back at him, “Gallagher, let’s go!”

Ian grunted with the futility of his frustration and jogged after him.

“Where is he?” Mickey asked and Ian sighed and led Mickey to the back office. Mickey pointed to the closed door for confirmation and Ian nodded, watching with growing interest to see just how Mickey intended to handle this. Mickey tried the door and found it locked, so he backed up a little and unceremoniously kicked it in. Ian followed Mickey in to find a young man struggling to get up off his knees, while Martin shot up from the chair in shock, while quickly trying to zip up.

“Auditioning replacements already?” Ian sneered, “you’re so fucking gross.”

Mickey jerked his head, telling the young man to get out. The startled youth wasted no time hightailing it and Mickey locked the door behind him.

“Ian, what the fuck—” Martin began, but Mickey cut him off.

“My friend here told me you just let him go. I imagine you’re not exactly Department of Labour compliant, but you can’t just fire someone without a little compensation.”

Martin was beside himself, “what fucking compensation?” he then glared at Ian, “look, I’m sorry you had to get the boot, but it is what it is. I’m not pissing off the Mob for you or anyone like you. Getting your boyfriend to snot at me isn’t going to make a difference.”

Mickey let out a short laugh and edged closer to the table. “Boyfriend? You calling me gay?”

Martin huffed his impatience, “please, honey, you make Justin—”

Mickey’s hand shot out and grabbed Martin’s tie, yanking it down so viciously that Martin’s face collided painfully with the tabletop. Mickey came around quickly and pressed the groaning, whimpering man’s head hard into the desk. Ian could only gape.

“Hey, Gallagher, how much do you clear at the end of a night?” Mickey’s eyes snapped to Ian’s and the latter was left sputtering.

“Ah, usually like two hun—” Ian faltered when Mickey glared at him sharply, “I-I mean, like four? No, five hundred a night?”

“Bullshit you clear five hundred on aver—argh!” Martin screeched when Mickey pulled hard on his moustache.

“Okay, so two weeks’ severance is typically the norm, right?” Mickey slapped the side of Martin’s head, “so that’s five hundred a night, at five nights a week for two weeks. What does the math say?”

“He doesn’t work five nights a—ow!”

“Five hundred a night, at five nights a week for two weeks… What does the math say?”  Mickey repeated through gritted teeth.

“Five grand!” Martin was close to sobbing from the painful pressure on his head.

“Good job, now pay the man,” Mickey finally let him up and watched, eagle-eyed, as Martin lurched to the small safe in the office and begrudgingly pulled out the bills.

The manager quickly counted and double checked the money before handing the roll over to Ian. “You’re not going to get away with this.”

“Yes we are, so take it down a notch, Snidely Whiplash,” Mickey said and motioned to Ian that it was time to get going. “Who are you going to complain to about this?”

“Alex was right about you,” Ian said as a parting shot, “you are an amoral asshole.”

With that, Martin was left glaring impotently while five thousand dollars of his money marched out of the room.

“Take me to see Sal,” Ian demanded as he climbed into the Escalade.

“Gallagher, it’s the middle of the night.”

“Take me to see Sal now,” Ian repeated with grim determination. “I don’t give a fuck if he’s asleep and if his wife has rules. He keeps expecting me to bend over backwards for him; it’s time he did the same. And give me my fucking phone back!”

Mickey grimaced and relented. He took the opportunity to fire off a quick text to Sal— _“Gallagher’s coming. He's pissed”—_ in the hopes that it woke him up and prepared him a bit. The last thing Mickey wanted was for Ian to confront a discombobulated Sal, startled from his sleep.

* * *

Too soon and they were at the pool house, in another flagrant violation of the set rules. Sal was inside and seated on one of the stools around the kitchen island, past the living room where chaos had occurred just days earlier. He stood up tiredly when they came in and stretched painfully.

“You got me fired?!” Ian wasted no time on preamble. “What the fuck, Sal?”

Sal looked past Ian to Mickey, who was hovering worriedly behind a fuming Ian. “Get gone; Ian and I need to talk alone.”

“No, Mickey stays,” Ian snapped, “because I might need a fucking witness.”

Mickey fell back but refused to leave. Before Sal could take him to task for it, Ian was once again in Sal’s face and bearing down on him.

“You got me fucking fired!”

Sal sighed heavily, “what the fuck are you doing here in the middle of the night? I told you that you’re not supposed to come here. What are you trying to pull?”

Ian shook his head in disbelief. “I hate when you try to flip shit on me like I’m the one fucking up here. You’re not even slick about it. You think I’m here on a whim, like I just felt like fucking shit up tonight? You went behind my back and got me fired!”

“Why the fuck are you coming at me like this, huh?” Sal’s brow furrowed as he glared at Ian. “I was doing you a fucking favour. I was looking out for you. I thought you’d be a little more grateful.”

 _“Grateful?!_ You want to explain that one to me?” Ian was flabbergasted, “why the fuck would I be grateful? I need that job, Sal. I have school, I have family that needs help; I’m going to be fucking grateful that you’re cutting off my best source of income?”

Sal was unapologetic. “That shit was beneath your dignity. Shaking your ass, practically naked in some sleazy club; it’s fucking degrading. I won’t have it.”

“Oh, it’s degrading now?! You weren’t so fucking snobby about it when you were shelling out close to two hundred bucks to get into the champagne room; but now it’s ‘degrading,’ is it?”

Sal inhaled sharply, and Mickey squirmed from his unobtrusive spot in the far corner of the living room. Mickey’s brain was working overtime trying to figure out if there was anything he could do to de-escalate the situation. He kept watch nervously as Sal levelled Ian with a steely gaze.

“You need to adjust your fucking tone when you talk to me. I’m not some boy you can scream down to,” he paused and then switched it up a bit, softening his tone, “Ian, you’re young, you’re not thinking this through clearly. For one thing, this is a dangerous environment. I worry about your safety every single night I know you’re there. There are bad people around—predators—just waiting to take advantage. Besides, this is about your career too. You’re the one that wants to be some corporate big shot. You think the Trumps and Kochs of the world are going to let some fucking go-go boy into the Boy’s Club? It’s like wanting to turn a whore into a housewife. Who’s gonna do that, huh? What the fuck are you thinking? Are you trying to fuck up your future?”

Ian flinched visibly, Sal finally hitting on one of Ian’s sorest spots. Sal’s eyes narrowed slightly at Ian’s grimace and noted the lack of furious retort. He swooped in for the kill.

“Ian, honey, I have been around this block thousands of times. I know what it’s like out there, and you need someone looking out for you. What I’m doing here is looking out for you. You’re worried about school and money? Don’t be. I told you before and I’ll say it again, when you’re with Sal Boerio, you’re safe, you’re taken care of.” Sal grabbed the back of Ian’s neck with one hand and patted his cheek with the other. “I don’t want you to worry about a thing, ever.”

Mickey kept on shifting uncomfortably as he watched the exchange. It had been a little alarming watching Ian deflate so spectacularly, all the heat and justifiable rage just knocked cleanly out of him, only to be replaced with uncertainty and anxiety. Still, Mickey had predicted this outcome almost down to the letter. Sal could find a chink in someone’s armour as easily as breathing, or he would keep stabbing away until he found one. Mickey could only guess at why that particular jab hit Ian so hard; maybe it was the idea of fucking up his future or never being respected. Either way, it was clear that Sal had won another battle in this very strange war. There were more assurances and promises, though Ian seemed to barely register them and soon Sal was nodding for Mickey to get Ian out of there.

* * *

During the car ride back home, Ian rarely spoke; his mind far too full of thoughts and anxieties to even make note of Mickey’s presence. Mickey kept darting glances at him, trying to mentally will the fire back into him.

“Sal shouldn’t have done what he did,” Mickey said, startling himself and Ian. He was breaking his long held code to never get involved in Sal’s dramas with his lovers. The argument had been more discomfiting to watch than he had thought possible, and Ian’s subsequent sullenness was even worse. Mickey knew Sal’s method; he and his brothers had been raised in it, had been shaped by it. The constant breakdowns and build ups, the lightning fast switches between affection and aggression. They grew up believing that Sal Boerio was God and the world was subject to his whims and moods.

As he got older, Mickey understood it all a little better. The rational adult in him knew Sal was just a man, and one with a hell of a lot more failings than the typical person. Yet, that rational adult, who was in charge of Mickey’s life the vast majority of the time, still had nothing on the half-starved, terrified, eight year old boy that had been rescued in magnificent fashion by the neighbourhood mobster. _“Stick with me, kid. Sal Boerio takes care of his own.”_ Fourteen years of that shit. Fourteen years of believing the sun rose and set because Sal said so. Fuck, it might have been too late for him, but Ian didn’t owe Sal anything. Ian didn’t deserve to get sucked into this shit.

“He should have at least asked you first, or something,” Mickey continued, ignoring the tremor that moved through him at the thought of denouncing Sal to someone else besides his own family.

Ian blinked at him and nodded, but still didn’t say much. He remained silent on the elevator ride up to his apartment and as Mickey did his pointless check. He grew a little more despondent as Mickey readied to leave, and wished he knew of a way to ask him to stay. To his surprise, the usually reticent Mickey still had something more to say.

“Look,” Mickey said as he paused at the open door, “that job will still be waiting when Sal fucks off. You’re hands down the best talent in the joint. They’d be nuts to not take you back.”

Ian smiled in spite of the situation. “‘In the joint?’ really? How old are you, grandpa?”

Mickey grinned back, relieved that Ian was perking up a little. “I am what I am, alright?”

Ian bit back a laugh and stared down at his sneakers. It was crazy he could still feel this way despite all the crap that had gone down tonight. But there they were, the sneaking warm and fuzzies mixed in with the rest of his jangled, raw emotions.

“I don’t know. Maybe Sal’s right. My background check is going to be a fucking mess. Who the fuck’s going to want some gay go-go dancer working accounts in their firm?”

“Someone who respects the hustle,” Mickey said easily. “Sal doesn’t know shit about the corporate world or the real big boys. I mean he wishes,” Mickey snorted. “Everybody loves a redemption tale and the rise of the underdog. You had to shake your ass to put yourself through college? That’s determination, that’s grit, they love that shit in an interview.” Mickey gave Ian an encouraging smile. “Plus by then they’d realize you’re willing to get down and dirty to get the job done. Shit, you’re hired right there.”

Ian was close to giggling like an idiot, and was at a loss as to how to deal with being slingshot from feeling the absolute worst to feeling the best he had in ages—all within the space of a couple hours.

“Redemption tale?” he asked Mickey quietly.

“Fuck, I know I’d hire you,” Mickey murmured, and lit up a cigarette to cover his warming face and distract from the weird tingling in his palms and in his gut. “Just be patient, Gallagher; it’ll work out. Silver lining, more time to study, right?”

Ian couldn’t remember the last time anyone besides Alex had worked so hard to make him feel better. He certainly couldn’t remember the last time someone had been even remotely that effective at it. He was tempted to tell Mickey that the easiest and best way to cheer him up was to maybe hang around for a while and make out with him a little for an hour, or two or six. But he couldn’t find his voice for that, and soon Mickey was nodding goodnight and turning away. Ian was left leaning against the door, mourning the loss of Mickey’s presence, long after the man had left the building.

* * *

“So, guess who’s not working at the club anymore?” Ian said to Alex as they sat under one of the elm trees on the school grounds.

“Wait, what, you actually quit?!” Alex asked hopefully, her eyes brightening at the prospect. “How, why?”

“Well, I didn’t quit so much as get fired, thanks to Sal.”

“W-what?!”

“Yeah, says it’s degrading and dangerous and all that shit. So he called Martin and told him to fire me.”

Alex sputtered incoherently for a minute before shaking her head in stunned disbelief. “This guy…this fucking guy.”

Ian raised an eyebrow at her. “I thought you’d be relieved. You’re always freaking out about me working there. He pretty much used some of the same arguments you did.”

“The difference being that while I made my case and tried to persuade you to quit, I still respected your choices and your fucking agency! He didn’t do that for your sake; he did it because he’s a fucking possessive, controlling über-creep! I just—flames on the side of my face!”    

Ian rifled through his bag and pulled out a notification from the financial aid office. “First year of college was all paid up this morning. Sal Boerio likes to apologise with pizzazz.”

“I can’t even—this is just,” Alex took a deep breath and flailed her hands for a bit, “and what exactly will you have to do or put up with for year two? It’s like you’re trying to give me a rage-stroke.”

“I’m looking at the positives. I have more time for school, because let’s be honest, I was getting a little overwhelmed here. Financial aid is off my ass for a year and I can get a proper sleep schedule now.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?” Alex was conflicted. On one hand, she had wanted so much for Ian to get out of that environment. Ian’s first stint with the clubs had been during his drug-fuelled, manic phase, where disgusting men readily took advantage of him. He was medicated now and maintaining, but Alex felt the clubs were just one huge trigger waiting to go off. On the other hand, she certainly didn’t want him under Sal’s thumb. She always feared that Ian wasn’t handling things nearly as well as he thought he was.

“Make sure you tell Dr. Lester about all this shit, Ian!” she jabbed a finger at him. “I’m only in my first year. I can’t even begin to explain how fucked up all this shit is without my head exploding.”

* * *

Anne Lester was frowning deeply at her listing plants. The assistant at Home Depot had assured her that they were evergreens and would survive even nuclear fallout. Apparently she was worse than nuclear fallout now. Wasn’t that wonderful? She sighed and threw her hands up in defeat, but was distracted by Alex barrelling into her office.

“Alex, how are you, hon—”

“Dr. Lester, has Ian been telling you about his slimy disaster of a boyfriend?!” Alex cried while dumping her bag on the floor and tossing herself onto the couch. “He got him fired, did he tell you that?!” Alex’s voice was increasing rapidly in speed and volume and her face was flushed. “Ian doesn’t listen to me, and his relationship has more red flags than a communist parade!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dr. Lester waved her hands wildly and cut Alex off. “Can we take a breath? Let’s take a breath,” she said and sat in her chair in front of Alex and extended her hands, palms up.

“But Dr. Lester—”

“Let’s breathe!” Dr. Lester insisted, her eyes closed and her hands still outstretched, waiting for Alex to take them.

Alex sighed and relented, obediently holding Dr. Lester’s hands and taking a deep breath and holding it as instructed. For the next few minutes, Dr. Lester walked her through her breathing exercises, forcing her to calm and center herself before the session could go any further.

Dr. Lester popped one eye open and peeked at Alex, “okay?”

“Okay,” Alex murmured softly and slumped into the seat.

“So here’s the thing,” Dr. Lester clapped her hands together and settled back into her chair. “I know you’re concerned about Ian, and I know he’s going through some things right now. I promise you that I will offer him all the help and guidance as I can, and I assure—because I know you worry—that I will give him all the love and attention I can. I will try my best to do right by him, as I will try to do right by you. Hmm?” she cocked her head in question and Alex nodded slowly. “Ian has his own time with me, and unless there is imminent danger, he should be the one to tell me what’s going on, right? So, this is Alex’s time, and we’re going to shift the focus from Ian for now to where it rightfully belongs.”

Alex again nodded mutely and twisted her fingers into the hem of her sweater. Dr. Lester watched her for a bit before leaning forward and patting Alex’s knee gently. “So what’s going on?”

“I… well, not much. I’ve mostly been worried about Ian,” Alex shot her therapist a moody glance and went on fussing with her sweater.

“I can imagine,” Dr. Lester replied, not taking the bait, “last time you were here, you were telling me about issues with your gender reassignment counsellor. Are things any better now?”

“No, she’s a twat,” Alex sneered, “I don’t get why you can’t be my counsellor. You’ve known me forever and you understand everything.”

“I wish I understood everything, but I’m afraid I don’t. I’ll help you every way I can, but I do feel you need someone with more specialized experience guiding you through this process.”

“I guess, but some of the times, I don’t think she hears me. I think she’s using her own experience to just blanket everything, like I’m weird for not experiencing my transition the same way she did. If my piece of shit parents hadn’t kicked me off their insurance, I would look for someone else. I guess it’s like my dad says, ‘you get what you pay for.’”

Dr. Lester stayed silent and watched as Alex worked her way up to saying something else.

“It’s been a year, you know?” Alex said softly, “since I started my HRT. It’s been a whole year.”

“That’s a pretty significant anniversary. It’s been quite the change for you.”

“Has it though?” Alex frowned and picked at the knees of her jeans. “I mean, yeah, my breasts are always sore and my hips have a little extra on them, but it’s been a whole year. I just thought—I had thought that I’d feel so much better now, that I’d be in such a better place, but I still feel so wrong, like nothing fits.”

She twisted uncomfortably as if there wasn’t a good spot anywhere on the couch to relax. “I keep taking stock of my life and I realize that I have so much shit I have to sort out. I have to deal with my issues with my parents, my fear of failure, my fear of success, my clown phobia,” she laughed, “I mean, I have a whole fucking laundry list, but when will I ever get to them? How am I supposed to deal with any of that shit when every day I wake up and I look in the mirror and still don’t recognise the person I see there?”

Her voice shook and tears welled up quickly. “I should be so much further along now, right? How can it still feel so wrong after a whole year? What if this is the way it still is after everything? What if I wake up after the surgery and find that the only thing different is that I’m mutilated. What if I’m still gross?!”

Dr. Lester got up and grabbed a box of tissues from her desk before heading back to sit on the couch next to Alex. She pulled the crying girl down until Alex was resting in her lap, and held her until she calmed down, rocking her a little until the sobs subsided into sniffles.

“Did I ever tell you about this girl I met when she was sixteen?” Dr. Lester began while she stroked Alex’s hair. “She was striking, to say the least. She had this wild, black pixie cut, tons of eyeliner, dressed like a spokesmodel for Hot Topic…”

Alex let out a watery giggle, “sounds like a total mess.”

“Well she was, but not because of how she looked. She was just trying to do something she had been struggling with for years—getting the outside to match the inside, you know? God, she was all over the place; so much rage and confusion and hurt. She was going down this self-destructive path that was so frightening, even to me and I thought I’d seen it all. I honestly worried if I’d be able to help this girl.”

Alex sniffled, “so what happened?”

“She surprised me. She had these hidden reserves of strength and braveness that you wouldn’t believe. I had written down a date for when I had hoped she would achieve one of her personal milestones—buying a skirt she liked and wearing it out. By the time we got to that date, not only had she bought the skirt, she had a whole wardrobe, was practically a make-up guru, had a strong obsession with thigh-high socks—”

“I was going through my _Clueless_ phase. Cher Horowitz was the shit.”

“Indeed, and this girl in question was living openly as a girl, despite being terrified of the fall out. And there I was thinking she would have just owned a skirt!” Dr. Lester pulled Alex’s blonde mane from her face and looked down at the tear-streaked girl tenderly, “Alex, I so wish psychiatry had progressed enough to allow me to just pull you outside yourself for a minute just so you could see how far you’ve come. You have been moving in leaps and bounds and it is stunning to see. That’s how I know you’re going to get through this, and that one day, you’re going to look in your mirror and all you’re going to think is ‘ugh, bed head.’”

Alex snorted and Dr. Lester smoothed her hair soothingly.

“I know it’s slow and agonising, and I wish I could make the process of correcting nature’s mistake go just like that; but we’ll get there. We’re going to keep working on making you feel whole until you do.”

“What if I never do though?” Alex asked quietly.

“Then we’ll keep working, and I need you to hold on to the hope that you will feel at home in your own skin one day, okay?”

Alex nodded and sighed into the doctor’s skirt. She snorted again at Dr. Lester’s next question.

“Now what’s this about you being scared of clowns?”

* * *

Mickey had lost count of the number of times he caught himself glaring at the back of Sal’s head. He was leaning against the wall, watching Sal demolish a lobster while the latest supplicant laid out his case.

“He’s undercutting me out of spite,” the man moaned, “he’s not even making money the way he’s doing business. He just wants to ruin me over this! We were friends once…”

“With all due respect, Mr. Gillespie, taking a man’s wife isn’t a small thing,” Sal said before downing a glass of wine and refilling his glass, “I’d be pretty fucking vengeful too if someone dared to take what’s mine.”

“She’s a good, sweet woman; not a goat,” Gillespie said, sounding somewhat scandalized, “he treated her with contempt for years and then he’s surprised he lost her?  I admit, it was a hurtful thing to do to a friend, but you can’t help who you fall in love with sometimes,” he sighed. “Now he seeks to ruin me. He’s stealing my contracts, slandering me all over Chicago… I’ve tried, but I’m at my wits end and if something isn’t done soon, I could lose everything.”

Sal sniffed and sucked down another piece of lobster while he regarded the morose man for a moment. “You sure you know what you’re asking for here? You get me involved and I’m not going to send my boys down there with a strongly worded letter. This really the route you want to go?”

“I’m on the edge of ruin,” the man responded despondently.

Sal shrugged, “alright…thirty percent.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Thirty percent of your profits and your problem disappears.”

Gillespie’s mouth moved wordlessly as he mulled it over, “that’s so steep.”

“Is it?” Sal turned in his seat and called for Mickey. “Mick, lemme ask you something. What’s the going rate these days for getting snatched back from the edge of ruin?”

“Who can put a price on such things?”

“That is an excellent fucking point,” Sal said and turned back to the anxious man, “how _do_ you quantify a thing like that? And you with a brand new wife to take care of and everything. Thirty percent, or solve your own fucking problems.”

* * *

That night found Mickey, Jaime and Tony in a dark, beat up Toyota Camry, intent on solving Mr. Gillespie’s problem for him. In the backseat, Tony had fallen asleep and was snoring softly while Mickey cruised through the quiet streets.

“What’s with Sleeping Beauty?” Mickey asked and Jaime peeked over his shoulder just in time to see Tony’s mouth fall open.

“AJ’s running a fever, kept them up all night, and that was after Tony came in from that O’Hare run.”

“Kids fucking suck,” Mickey chuckled, “I don’t know why you insist on having them.”

“Who insisted? They keep springing mine on me. I swear to god.”

The brothers drove for a while in companionable silence until Mickey spoke again. “So Iggy or Joey tell you what went down with Sal the other night?”

“The coke’s making him meaner and meaner with every hit he takes,” Jaime said, “Iggy and Joey need to learn how to read a situation and clear the fuck out.”

“Gallagher actually stepped in,” Mickey added, “kept Sal distracted while I got them out.”

“Yeah, I heard about that mess too,” Jaime said, frowning a little. “He didn’t need to do that. He’s not family. We handle our own fucking business. I heard he was at your place again last night. What the fuck was he even doing there that time of night?”

“Sal got him fired from the club,” Mickey explained, “he lost his shit and wanted to take Sal’s head right off.”

“You should have taken his ass home. He doesn’t call the shots here, Sal does,” Jaime groused, “he started off so cool and quiet, but now he looks like he’s going to bring more fucking drama than the goddamned drag queen Sal dumped for him.”

“He got him fired though; he had a right to be pissed.”

“About what, not having to shake his ass in front of a bunch of drooling perverts? I thought that was the gold-digger dream. He’s reaping the benefits, so all he has to do is show up, shut up and suck Sal’s dick as required. It’s not that hard.”

“I hear that’s what it says on Sal’s dick,” Mickey joked and they both sniggered.

“Can’t be, who has the skills to tattoo all that on so small a canvas?” Jaime said and they both giggled goofily.

The laughter trailed off and Mickey tentatively brought up Ian again. “I don’t know; I’m not getting the gold-digger vibe off Gallagher though.”

Jaime gave his baby brother a sidelong glance, “oh, so he’s just fucking with Sal for his health? Last I checked Sal Boerio wasn’t exactly Prince Charming. Gallagher seems like a nice enough guy, but make no mistake, they’re all fucking gold-diggers, every last one of them that comes through there. Sal can afford to get fooled, you can’t.”

The conversation ended when they pulled up to the target store front. Jaime slapped Tony awake and Mickey sat ready and waiting while his brothers unloaded the cans of gasoline and bolt cutters from the trunk. It took only a few minutes before the flames got rid of one of Mr. Gillespie’s problems while plunging him into a whole lot more. Once one got into bed with the Mob, one tended to stay there forever.    


	7. Smooth Criminal

Food, shower, homework, bed—Ian had his night all planned out. He sighed with relief when he pushed his door open and dumped his bag on the floor. He eyed his bed longingly; the gym at school had zapped his remaining energy. He toyed with the idea of taking a short nap first, only to get startled by a familiar voice.

“That how you do it, Gallagher? Just walk in without even doing a check to see if bad men like me are hanging around your apartment?”

Ian jumped, startled, and spun towards the voice. There was Mickey, partly shrouded in the dark and barely illuminated by the soft glow of his cigarette, leaning easily against Ian’s kitchen counter.

“What the fuck, Mickey?!” Ian frowned at his unexpected visitor, and watched as Mickey kicked away from the counter and approached him slowly.

“Tossed your place,” Mickey answered blithely, “I tried to put everything back how I found them. I’m not sure how successful I was.”

“You searched my place?” Ian’s anger sparked quickly, “what the fuck was Sal hoping you’d find?”

“This was my call, not Sal’s,” Mickey stopped directly in front of Ian, “I was doing my due diligence; had to make sure you weren’t a narc.”

“I already said I wasn’t!”

“Like I’m going to just take your word for it?” Mickey sniffed.

Ian simply sighed, unable to summon the energy to stay angry, “so are you done now? You satisfied?”

Mickey snorted softly. “Satisfied? Not exactly, but we can work on that,” he blew out some smoke and eyed Ian from head to toe, “I’m only halfway done after all. I never did search you for that wire.”

Something about the way Mickey said it had the heat instantly pooling in Ian’s gut. It finally clicked that something was simply weird about the whole scene and he realized just how close Mickey was. Ian didn’t even have any room to step back with the night table right behind his knees. Mickey was staring him down, watchful and teasing and easily winding Ian up. Frissons of energy were moving down Ian’s spine as his anticipation built before he was hit with a sobering thought.

“You’re fucking with me,” Ian sighed. “You’re such an asshole, Mick. Can’t you just— _oof!_ ” All Ian could manage was a surprised grunt when Mickey grabbed him by the jacket and unceremoniously tossed him onto the bed. Ian struggled to sit up only to see Mickey climbing out of his shoes and stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on the night table. “Mickey, what are you doing?”

Mickey didn’t answer; instead he climbed into the bed and slowly and deliberately straddled Ian.

“I don’t—what are you…” Ian trailed off as Mickey leisurely unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off to reveal the tight, white tank beneath it. “Is this some sort of test?” Ian asked suddenly, “I swear to god, if this is some sort of bullshit test to see if I’m loyal or faithful or some shit!”

Mickey only smirked and leaned forward to brace on one arm while he firmly massaged the growing bulge in Ian’s pants. All the air promptly left Ian’s lungs.

 “Might be a test,” Mickey said breezily while he kept up the gentle pressure on Ian’s crotch. He edged forward a bit so he could grind down against the stunned redhead. Ian moaned and Mickey smirked as Ian squirmed beneath him. “So what do you say, chief?”

They locked eyes and Ian’s brain hastily played the odds. This was probably a test. Shit, it was _most_ _likely_ a test and the consequences of failing could be dire. He needed to decide quickly, because all the blood was rushing away from his brain and his decision making skills were getting severely compromised.

“I suck at test taking…” Ian murmured and Mickey raised an eyebrow at him. “Fuck it,” Ian said and surged up to catch Mickey around the middle and abruptly flipped him onto his back.

Mickey’s lecherous laugh went straight to Ian’s cock and he struggled desperately to get out of his jacket. While he fought off his jacket, Mickey leaned up, deftly unzipped Ian’s jeans and took him in hand. Ian gasped and froze as Mickey stroked him to full hardness. Mickey’s gaze on him was burning and unblinking, and it made Ian shiver all over. Mickey’s hand moved faster on his cock and squeezed him just tightly enough to have Ian choking. It was the most amazing thing Ian had ever felt, though he shouldn’t have been surprised at Mickey’s skill—the man had been jacking off gear sticks for years.

Mickey reached up with his free hand and tugged Ian down to him by his shirt. He then tangled his hand in Ian’s hair and hooked his legs around Ian’s, leaving just enough space between them to continue jerking Ian off.

Ian was held fast, unable to do anything while Mickey swiped his thumb over the head of his cock and breathed harshly into his ear. His hands twisted into the sheets and he bucked hard into Mickey’s grasp. He tried his best to keep it going, to keep his orgasm at bay and prolong this amazing feeling for as long as he could, but he couldn’t fight against it. He groaned deeply and came hotly into Mickey’s hand, revelling in Mickey’s self-satisfied chuckle as he slumped on top of him.

Ian lay sprawled on top of Mickey and struggled to catch his breath. Not that he was in any particular hurry. Mickey wasn’t complaining about his weight or shoving him off, so Ian was perfectly content to lay there for a moment, absorbing Mickey’s heat and scent. Ian finally pulled his head out of the crook of Mickey’s neck to see that Mickey was staring at him. Unthinkingly, Ian moved towards him, craving a kiss, and was bewildered when Mickey jerked his head back.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Mickey frowned at him, leaving him blinking.

“I was going to kiss you.”

“Kiss me?” Mickey sounded incredulous, “do I look like some kind of faggot to you?”

Ian was stupefied and searched Mickey’s face to see if he was serious. “But you just—I mean I thought…”

“Greedy fucker,” Mickey chastised him, “I jerk you off and still you push for more. What do you want, everything?”

“Yes actually,” Ian said quietly, his fingers reaching up to trail along Mickey’s jaw. Again, Mickey twitched away from the ministration.

“In your dreams,” Mickey scoffed, “what you need to do is wake the fuck up.”

“Mickey, can’t we just—”

 _“WAKE THE FUCK UP!”_ Mickey boomed, sending Ian scrambling away in shock.

“Jesus fuck!”

_“WAKE THE FUCK UP! WAKE THE FUCK UP!”_

Ian shot upright and on instinct sent the screaming alarm clock sailing towards the kitchen. Fucking Carl—of course of all Ian’s going off to college gifts from his siblings, Carl’s would be the one most likely to induce a heart attack. Ian sighed and groaned as the alarm kept warbling from its new home on the floor in the kitchen. He peeked under his sheets and groaned again in disgust. He shuffled out of bed and headed to the bathroom to clean up. It was a hell of a way to start the morning.

* * *

Mickey Milkovich was the worst.

By the time the weekend rolled around, Ian was convinced that everything wrong in the universe was Mickey’s fault. It was Mickey’s fault he wasn’t sleeping well, it was Mickey’s fault his appetite wasn’t great and it was mostly Mickey’s fault that he was so distracted in the middle of his business course lectures. It was entirely Mickey’s fault that he was doing stupid middle school shit like trying to work out their love percentages when his mind wandered in class (“Mickey + Ian” worked out to twenty-six percent, “Mickey Milkovich + Ian Gallagher” yielded forty three; ergo, Mickey also had a stupid, low yield name).

The only thing more infuriating than Mickey Milkovich himself was his blissful, wilful unawareness of his human wrecking ball status. Mickey went about his business completely ignorant of how much Ian wanted to stomp his stupid face in, or how often Ian glared at him while he went about lost in his own world. Instead, Mickey just went about licking his lips like he was starring in his own private porno, and there he went again molesting the gear shift. _What the fuck was his problem?!_

“You okay? You seem a little distracted,” Sal asked, jerking Ian’s attention back to him.

Ian hadn’t been distracted in the least; in fact he had been quite focused on glaring at Mickey over Sal’s shoulder as they dined at the little upscale bistro. Mickey sat by himself at a small table and was passing his time flirting with a very receptive waitress. She kept coming back to refill his drinks, and bring him water and rolls, all the while tossing her hair and giggling up a storm at whatever stupid shit Mickey was telling her.

“Ah, no I’m just a little tired from school and everything,” Ian smiled weakly at Sal before his eyes slid back again to Mickey, who—miraculously devoid of the waitress—was actually looking back at him. For a moment, it was like being back up on stage at the club with Mickey’s gaze caressing him. His body automatically responded to it, and Ian decided that he hated Mickey for that too.

Ian was lucky; Sal’s energy was flagging and he had been keen only on having lunch. A hushed phone call for Sal got Ian off the hook entirely and he was free to continue glaring at his crush on the drive home. He nearly bit his tongue at the first red light where Mickey’s hand automatically left the steering wheel to the gear shift and every tortuous dream Ian had been having for the last couple of weeks came rushing back in graphic detail.

“Do you have to do that?!” Ian finally snapped.

“What the fu—what?!” Mickey answered, startled by Ian’s abrupt outburst. Mickey swore to everything he was going to end up accidentally shooting this spastic, redheaded moron one day.

“That thing you do,” Ian sputtered, red-faced, “why do you keep grabbing the stick?!”

Mickey glanced down at his hand and back up to Ian, and looked at him askance and bewildered. “What?!”

“It’s fucking distracting, alright?” Ian struggled with the mortification of having to explain away his weird behaviour, “there’s no reason for you to touch it until you’re parking again. I keep thinking something’s about to happen and it freaks me out!” It was a lie, of course, but not an unreasonable one, Ian hoped.

Mickey frowned and looked down at his hand again. “Look, it’s just instinct, alright? My own cars are both manual transmission; I have to work the stick for everything. I just developed the habit. There’s nothing dire going on, so calm the fuck down.”

Ian simply huffed and looked out the window, annoyed and embarrassed by everything. “Whatever, it’s stupid; you’re stupid.”

Mickey bit back a laugh at Ian’s huffiness. Gallagher was clearly in brat-mode these past few days and Mickey was again surprised by how much he loved it. Mickey would have unhesitatingly strangled anyone else throwing these tantrums and bringing this attitude, but not Ian. On him, Mickey found the whole thing weirdly adorable and endearing. He watched, amused, as Ian glared out the window at nothing in particular, and Mickey was tempted to walk his fingers up Ian’s side and into his neck until the redhead snapped and flailed at him in annoyance. Of course he didn’t give into the temptations. This was Mickey’s life now—constantly fighting all his Ian-related urges.

* * *

A short while later, Ian slowly realized that they weren’t moving at a reasonable speed. The car had been creeping along in a neighbourhood that Ian didn’t recognise. The first thing that sprung to Ian’s mind was that this speed was at a drive-by level, and he quickly turned to Mickey to find out what was going on. To Ian’s alarm, Mickey did seem to be trailing someone; a dark-haired man, absorbed in his phone, and who seemed oblivious to the danger stalking him.

“Mickey what the fuck?” Ian whispered and Mickey only frowned in answer, his eyes never leaving the man.

A few more minutes of slow stalking and Mickey parked the car. To Ian’s growing apprehension, Mickey reached towards the backseat and pulled out a baseball bat. He then turned a stern glare on Ian.

“Do not leave this car for whatever reason,” he ordered and looked back at the man still walking up the street, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Do not leave this car, Gallagher.”

Ian just gaped as Mickey climbed out of the Escalade and quickly closed the distance on his target. When Mickey had halved the distance, the other man suddenly broke into a run—apparently not as unaware as Ian had imagined—and had Mickey yelling and chasing after him. The man jumped a fence into a yard and Mickey took off after him.

Ian was on pins and needles the second Mickey and his target disappeared from view. He didn’t know what to do. He obediently stayed put, his heart racing as he prayed for Mickey to re-emerge, uninjured. Within the next minute, the noticed a dark sedan pull up and park a short distance ahead of him. Three scruffy young men spilled out, one armed with a tyre iron, another with a crowbar, and they quickly took off in the same direction Mickey and his target had gone.

There was no way they were Sal’s guys, and Mickey hadn’t called for any back up. Ian’s anxiety spiked and he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. Before his brain could process what he was doing, he was out of the car and taking after them.

* * *

Mickey caught up with his target in the middle of someone’s pristine backyard. He sent the man sprawling heavily to the ground and stood menacingly over him.

“Jimmy…Steve, or whatever the fuck you’re going by these days,” Mickey said, “long time.”

“Hey, Mick,” Jimmy looked up from his prone position on the ground and cringed at the sight of the bat hovering near his face. “I’ve been meaning to come see you.”

Mickey seemed unconvinced, “where the fuck are my cars?”

“I ran into a little difficulty acquiring the ones that you ordered and – _oof_ ” Jimmy was silenced by a hard kick to the ribs.

“I know you got them, because those cars were stolen not long after I gave you the order. Only they aren’t in any of Sal’s garages, so now me and you have a problem.”

Jimmy struggled to his knees, “okay look, Mickey, I ran into some trouble on the Southside. You see there’s this girl—”

Mickey kicked Jimmy’s legs right out from under him, “that sounds like a whole lot of ‘not my fucking problem.’ All I want to know is how you plan to compensate me.”

“Hey, let him go!”

Mickey turned to see three men scaling the fence into the yard. They stopped immediately after they got to the ground and stood lined off watching Mickey.

“Took you long enough,” Jimmy groused, and Mickey’s eyes narrowed as he took in the newcomers.

“You’re Johnny Two toes dudes,” Mickey surmised before looking down at Jimmy, “you’re crossing me and giving my shit to Johnny? You’re as stupid as you look.”

“He pays upfront, and I needed the cash. My girl’s looking out for five kids and—”

“Shut the fuck up, Jimmy,” Mickey said and turned his attention back to the men.

“Are you going to let him up?” one of the men asked and Mickey raised an eyebrow at them before deliberately stepping on Jimmy’s hand.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Mickey responded after Jimmy’s pained yelling subsided, “what do you plan to do about it?”

The three men looked at each other nervously. No one was too keen to tangle with a bonafide mobster, even if the odds were in their favour for the moment.

“There’s like three of us and only one of you,” another of the men posited.

“Very good, chief. I’m surprised you can count that high,” Mickey flexed his shoulders and slung the bat across them. “We gonna dance or what?”

Mickey’s flippant insouciance wasn’t helping the men’s apprehension either, and they wondered if he was really the only one there. They hesitated and looked to each other for some sort of direction and support. Across the short distance between them, Mickey was getting visibly impatient and irritated and the men were coming to the realization that he was crazy. They weren’t too keen to tangle with a crazy man either. In the end, it was Jimmy that broke the standoff by reaching up and biting Mickey hard on the back of his leg.

“Ow! The fuck?!” Mickey spun on instinct and kicked Jimmy across the face, knocking the car thief unconscious.

It was all the men needed and they used Mickey’s distraction and the proof of his vulnerability to charge at him. Mickey was caught on the back foot and the men were practically on top of him, only for all four men to freeze mid-action, momentarily stymied by the sound of an unexpected battle cry. They all turned in its direction, and there was Eric the Red charging in with a roar. Mickey could only blink as Ian dived in and used a crushing tackle to take out the man with the tyre iron.

Mickey shook himself awake and shoved the head of the bat into the stomach of the other armed man, before swinging on the other. The man narrowly avoided getting brained by the bat, and decided then and there that there was no time like the present to quit the scene. He ran off, leaving his two colleagues to deal with Mickey and Ian on their own. Mickey looked over at Ian, who had straddled his opponent and was happily exorcising all his frustrations by beating the hell out of him. Satisfied, Mickey turned his full attention to the man on his knees dry heaving and prepared to take him out. That is until a gunshot rang through the air. All the men who were still conscious turned to see an elderly woman, toting a musket, standing on her back porch. She didn’t seem happy to see all the fighting men in her yard.

“Get the hell off my property!” She yelled and waved the gun about.

“Oh no, heat packing grannies, my only weakness,” Mickey muttered, making Ian burst out laughing in spite of the fraught situation. If only Mickey was kidding. Old ladies were going to be the death of him. “You wanna watch where you’re pointing that thing?”

“Get the fuck off my property, you fucking piece of shit cocksuckers!” she screamed again.

“Oh my god, lady; you kissed Lincoln with that mouth?!” Mickey asked as he pressed a scandalized hand daintily to his chest. Behind him, Ian kept cracking up.

“Mickey, don’t aggravate her!”

“Me? She came out here aggravated,” Mickey answered Ian’s warning, but raised his hand to placate the grumbling woman who was now fussing with her gun, “alright, Annie Oakley, I’m leaving. Just give me a second to get my shit.”

Mickey walked backwards, keeping an eye on the woman, and grabbed Ian by the back of his jacket. “Let’s go; we only have hours before she reloads.” He dragged Ian to his feet and quickly headed back the way they came.

“What about him?!” the woman screamed, indicating a still unconscious Jimmy—his would be saviours having abandoned him.

“Not my division!” Mickey yelled back, and he and Ian ran off laughing.

They ran back to the car and peeled off quickly, since they had no intention of being anywhere near the area if the police showed up. When Mickey felt they were far enough from the scene, he pulled over to the side of the road and turned on Ian.

“What the fuck did I say?!” he demanded.

Ian turned big, innocent eyes on him. “What?”

“Didn’t I say to stay in the fucking car?”

Ian was unapologetic, “you were about to get your ass handed to you! I saved you, you ungrateful prick.”

“Like fuck you saved me; I had it covered,” Mickey sniffed and Ian rolled his eyes at him. Mickey assessed his ward, looking for signs of injury, “you alright? You didn’t get any damage I have to explain, did you?” He then shocked the hell out of Ian by grabbing his chin and turning Ian’s face back and forth, “nah, still pretty.”

Ian was tongue-tied, especially when Mickey unleashed a megawatt of a grin on him.

“Maybe you did help me out a little,” Mickey admitted as he started the car. He eyed Ian shyly, “you hungry? I guess I might owe you a burger. You didn’t really eat at the bistro.”

“I-I guess I could eat,” Ian replied, all the butterflies coming out in full force.

“Yeah, okay…let’s go eat.”

* * *

The restaurant was a ‘50s style diner complete with chequered floors and red booth seats. The bright, airy restaurant was only half full, but Mickey didn’t look around for an empty seat. Instead he headed straight for a booth near the center of the diner, with two couples on a double date.

“Hey,” Mickey greeted them fairly warmly and they responded in kind, “I kinda need your seat.”

The couples stared at Mickey blankly while he waited patiently for them to vacate the booth.

“There are like a dozen empty seats here,” the petite brunette of the group pointed out.

“Yeah, but I want this one.”

The potential standoff was interrupted by the waitress swooping in. If the couples thought she was going to chase Mickey off, they were wrong. Instead, she pinned on her sweetest smile and asked them sweetly to move to another table, soothing the sting with the offer of a free dessert. The group begrudgingly moved, shooting Mickey a few dirty glances. The waitress came back quickly to clean the booth and leave their menus, and Ian and Mickey slid right in.

Ian gave Mickey a disapproving look. “I take it you’re a regular, but did you have to chase the nice people off and take their seat?”

“Yeah, actually I did,” Mickey said, unabashed for the moment, only for Ian to give him the chin and raise a disapproving eyebrow at him. Mickey sighed and called the waitress over. “If they’ll accept it, their meal’s on me,” Mickey said much to waitress’s surprise. He rolled his eyes at Ian who was now grinning at him. “You happy now?”

“Well, why’d you chase them off in the first place?”

Mickey nodded to the north entrance where the car was parked, then to the second entrance on the east side of the restaurant. “I see everything and no one sneaks up on me. See, I’m not an asshole for no reason.”

“I never thought you were,” Ian said softly and that familiar tension and loaded silence quickly settled between them. They were mercifully saved by the reappearance of the waitress to take their order.

“The usual,” Mickey smiled up at her before nodding over at Ian.

“What’s the usual?” Ian asked him.

“Double cheeseburger, chocolate-banana milkshake, lots of fries…”

“That sounds good, I’ll take that,” Ian handed over the menu to the waitress, not really caring what she brought back. He glanced back at Mickey, who was still smiling at him—who actually hadn’t stopped smiling at him since the fight—and it was slowly turning Ian inside out.

“Shit, where does a college boy learn to fight like that?” Mickey finally asked, his grin growing wider at the memory of Ian rushing in like a red-tinged superhero and beating the shit out of Johnny’s goon. It was easily one of the hottest things Mickey had ever seen.

“Hey, I’m Southside, straight out of Canaryville,” Ian informed him happily, “plus I was in ROTC for ages…and there was that stint in the army.”

“Army?!”

Ian shrugged and grimaced. “Yeah, I kind of stole my big brother’s ID and ran off to join the army when I was seventeen.”

“Wow…go army!” Mickey said, surprised and impressed.

“Yeah,” Ian said slowly, “except I washed out like a month later after I tried to steal a helicopter and ended up snapping the rotor blade.”

“So, no army?” Mickey grinned at him, even more surprised and impressed.

“Yeah, I was going through some shit,” Ian admitted ruefully, “I told you my background check is going to be a shitshow. Sometimes I feel like I’ve fucked up everything.”

“Nah,” Mickey paused when their waitress returned with their shakes, “you’re supposed to fuck shit up when you’re a kid, right? Any asshole that would hold that against you can take his job and shove it. Shit, at least you aren’t boring, Gallagher, goddamn.”

Ian grinned into his shake, almost too giddy to take a proper sip. He shifted his legs and wound up brushing up against Mickey’s, making his whole body tingle. Mickey glanced up at him over his shake, but said nothing about the contact nor did Mickey shift his own legs to avoid him. Ian felt as if he was on cloud nine. Something had obviously shifted, as if he’d unlocked another level with Mickey. Shit, was that it? Did fighting with Mickey cause them to level up? Now all he wanted to do was to get into another fight to see how far that would get him. He was sorry he guilted Mickey into making nice with the couples, because maybe they’d have been willing to throw down.

They sipped their shakes in silence for a while, smiling goofily and stealing glances at each other until their burgers came. Despite the Mickey-induced fluttering in his gut, Ian found that he was ravenous after the fight, and both he and Mickey tore into their food. While he ate, he couldn’t keep from looking up at Mickey. Ian didn’t think they had ever been this close to each other before, especially while face to face. He was so cool, and amazing to look at. Ian didn’t know how he was going to get through the meal without doing something monumentally stupid.

“Just ask,” Mickey sighed and Ian looked at him, confused. “You want to ask me a stupid fucking question. I know, because you always get that look on your face just before you do. So just ask…I might answer this time.”

Ian shifted in excitement and anticipation, and he “accidentally” brushed against Mickey again beneath the table. “So, how long have you been doing this?”

“What, you mean working for Sal?” Mickey appeared to think over whether or not he was really about to divulge anything personal. He relented, giving into the power of that green gaze on him. “Since I was eight, so fourteen years.”

“Eight?! How the hell does an eight year old fall into shit like that?!”

Mickey shrugged nonchalantly, “circumstances, what can I say? My dad was the only thing keeping us together back then. He was a piss-poor excuse for an abusive fuck up, but he was all there was. Tony and Jaime’s mom took off ages ago; don’t even know what happened to Iggy and Joey’s mom. My mom died a little after Mandy was born. Terry kept us all though, until he went out drinking one night and never came back.”

Mickey clicked his tongue and shifted his fries around his plate. “Things went to shit so fast, man. No heat, no power, no food…it was kind of a miracle we lasted as long as we did to be honest.”

“No one called CPS?” Ian asked softly, thinking of all the times Child Protective Services had been summoned to their home.

“Maybe once or twice,” Mickey said, “no one really gave a shit, but even if they did show up, we would have dodged them. No one was going to split us up,” he added with ferocity in his voice. “Although it probably wouldn’t have mattered for much longer. We were on the brink,” Mickey laughed ruefully, “we were filthy and hungry, and Jaime and Tony tried it, but they were in and out of lockup all the time and had no clue how to deal with running the house. It was fucking crazy.”

“How did Sal come into it?”

“Oh man, he pulled some just in the nick of time shit,” an odd smile settled on Mickey’s face, “he showed up one day to collect what Terry owed him, except instead of my dad, it was just a bunch of gross kids in a disgusting house. When he finally figured out the situation, I remember he asked his right hand man then, Tony, what he should do. That Tony was a scary fucker, man. He runs his own crew now. He told Sal to call the cops and let them deal with it and I told them no, nobody was splitting us up. So Sal just shrugged and emptied out all the cash in his wallet, like maybe five hundred bucks and hands it to me—like what the fuck?—and then he just leaves. So I chased him, got to him just as he was getting into his car and I yelled at him ‘you’re just going to leave us here? You’re supposed to take care of everybody!’ And I don’t know what the fuck happened, but it worked and he took us, all of us; it was amazing!” Mickey let out a small, shaky laugh as he blinked back tears at the memory of it all. “It was amazing.”

Ian didn’t know what to say. He stared at his plate, giving Mickey a second to compose himself, and turned over the story in his head. Ian saw the hero worship shining in Mickey’s eyes when he spoke about the Sal that saved them, and Ian couldn’t help but wonder how much of that Sal was real, and how much of him remained today. When Ian glanced back up, Mickey appeared back to normal.

“So, are you being groomed to take over?” Ian asked.

“What, from Sal? No way, can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Milkovich, remember?” Mickey replied and grinned at Ian’s confusion, “either you’re forgetting your mob movies or you’re not paying attention. You have to be true blue Italian to become a made man, and we’re Ukrainian, so no dice. Officially, the most I’ll ever be is an associate. Unofficially though…”

“What will happen to you when Sal’s gone?”

Mickey’s smiled dimmed a little before he shrugged dismissively, alarming Ian. “I guess I get thrown on the funeral pyre with him. Who the fuck knows? I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

Ian frowned at him, his mind spinning with all this new information, but he was distracted by Mickey taking out his phone and calling someone. Ian then felt his phone vibrating. He fished it out to see an unknown number flashing up on his screen.

“That is for emergency purposes only, Gallagher, and only emergencies. No calling to shoot the breeze, or telling me any of your dumb jokes—emergencies only!”

“You had my number all this time?” Ian asked incredulously as he quickly saved Mickey’s number.

“Yes, Sal gave it to me for emergencies. You see how what works?” Mickey gave him another warning. “I figure it’s the least I can do since you’ve been saving my ass all over the place and all. Emergencies only.”

Ian grinned at Mickey irrepressibly, heart all a-flutter. “Sure…I’m nothing if not obedient.”

* * *

“How lucky can one guy be? I kissed him and he kissed me,” Sal crooned as he danced across the hotel room floor in his boxers, surprisingly light on his feet for a big guy, “My head keeps spinning, I go to sleep and keep grinning. If this is just the beginning, my life is gonna be bee-yoo-tiful!” Sal fell into bed next to a grinning Ian. He reached over and stroked Ian’s face tenderly. “I swear to everything, I can never get over this face of yours. You should be in movies, as god is my witness.”

Ian laughed and flipped over onto his back. “You wanna paint me like one of your French girls, Sal?”

“Ah, you see he’s trying to be funny,” Sal groaned, “trying to pull one over on the old man, but little does he know, I saw that movie and I understood that reference.”

“And I understood that reference,” Ian said, “maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

“Ah,” Sal threw up his hands, “it’s over for me. I’m but an ancient ruin surrounded by great beauty.”

Ian smiled up at Sal while the older man ran his fingers along his jaw line and down his bare chest. “So I heard a story about you,” Ian said.

“What awful thing did you hear?”

“Not awful in the least…Mickey told me about how he came to work for you,” Ian said, watching Sal’s reaction carefully.

“My Mickey? He opened his mouth and said shit to you? You’re a miracle worker, you’re beautiful,” Sal laughed easily, “the little shit; he wasn’t any bigger than my right hand when I first saw him, but had an attitude the size of the Empire State Building, I shit you not.”

Ian could easily picture that. He couldn’t imagine Mickey being anything less than a huge personality from birth.

“His father didn’t know what he had with those kids…his own fucking army and he had them doing petty runs and squandering their potential—the dumb fuck. He had a diamond in the rough right there. I could see it the instant I looked at him, you know, that he was special…the same way I could tell when I saw you that first time,” Sal said before quickly amending, “well not the same way, but you know what I mean.”

Sal sighed, transported back to that earlier time the same way Mickey had been in the diner. “A bunch of half-starved kids living by themselves in that shithole. I was overwhelmed by it; didn’t know what to do at first. I offered to call the cops, they said no. They’d rather die than get split up. The one good fucking thing Terry Milkovich made sure to instil in his kids was that family always sticks together. What could I do? I handed them some cash and planned to get the hell out that depressing shit. But Mickey, he came after me like a bat out of hell. Asked me if I was just going to leave them there, if it wasn’t my job to take care of them. The balls on this outrageous little punk; covered in filthy god knows what, standing all of four feet tall and still managing to look down on me. Can you believe that?”

Ian could quite easily. He hadn’t thought of much else since Mickey had told him the story.

“But I saw it right then,” Sal continued in his reverie, “that specialness. I realized that this was him, this was my general right there, and he turned out beautiful. The other ones I could take or leave, but my Mickey. And he’s _mine_ ,” Sal said with a sudden, strange ferocity, “that’s the best part. My own son—the ingrate—benefits from everything I do, but looks down on me like I’m filth, but my Mickey knows who saved him, knows who made him, and he never forgets that. It’s gonna stay that way.”

Ian hated the coldness that came over him as Sal spoke. He didn’t understand how everything could sound so wrong coming from Sal sometimes. Then abruptly the mood shifted again, with Sal snapping out of his weird fugue before he clapped Ian on the thigh.

“I’ve got something for you,” he scooted off the bed and retrieved a box from his jacket which hung in the closet. He sat on the bed and opened up the elaborate white box, revealing a fussy looking bottle of cologne. “Caron’s Poivre, I fucking love this shit. It’s one of my favorite things to smell. Smells like shit on me for some reason—body chemistry or some dumb fuckery they say—so make an old man happy and wear this once in a while, huh?”

Ian watched with interest as Sal carefully opened the bottle of cologne. “I’m going to teach you how to wear this shit. You don’t just slap it on like some dumb ape.”

“Really now? I need cologne lessons?” Ian rolled his eyes.

“Yes, you do when it comes to the primo stuff,” Sal nodded and nudged Ian with his elbow, “stick with me, kid; I’ll teach you things. Now you need to put tiny dabs on certain pressure spots; areas of the body that warm up—”

Sal finally opened the bottle and Ian was immediately hit with the familiarity of the scent. It didn’t take him a second to recognize it. That was Mickey’s cologne, the same one that wafted off his skin and invaded Ian’s dreams every night. For a moment, Ian was struck by the mental image of Mickey naked before his bathroom mirror; carefully applying the cologne in the way he had been instructed. The image stuck in Ian’s head and combined with the olfactory stimulation proved almost as intensely arousing as one of his dreams. Ian forgot where he was for the moment and ended up gasping in surprise when Sal’s fist closed around his hardening cock.

Ian forced himself to relax and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to drift off to a place where an entirely different mouth engulfed him in its heat and eagerly swallowed him down.


	8. Blame it on the Alcohol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end for a short glossary.  
> All comments and thoughts are welcome.

Alex narrowed her eyes and focused on Ian’s chest as he sauntered up to park bench. She stood abruptly and let two well-aimed fists fly straight at his nipples.

“Ow! Alex, what the fuck?!” Ian cried, crossing his hands protectively over his abused chest.

“Boob punch, motherfucker!” Alex said triumphantly before slumping back onto the park bench and rubbing her sore breasts. “Why should I be the only one suffering?”

“Misery really does love company,” Ian sighed and settled into his seat across from his friend.

“Thanks for covering my shifts for me while I was at those stupid workshops,” Alex said. “What did you do all weekend?”

“Nothing much, just hung out, did some reading, masturbated furiously to the scent of expensive cologne; you know… the usual.”

“Of course; that’s how I typically spend my alone time,” Alex said dryly and shoved her books towards her friend.

He wasted no time finding her notes and homework so he could start copying them off. As he scribbled away, Alex pulled out her tablet and was soon engrossed in it, both she and Ian toiling away in companionable silence. Not long after, however, Ian was distracted from his work by a woman’s moans floating over to him and he raised a cool eyebrow at Alex.

“You’re just going to stone cold watch porn in front of me?” he asked.

Alex scrunched her face. “Ugh, I wish it was porn. I’m watching this girl dilate her brand new vagina with a series of increasingly large and horrifying dildo-type things. This will be my life—manually keeping my fashionable lady parts open until my body wizens up and stops regarding them as a gaping wound.”

“Mmm, lady parts…so enticing,” Ian said under his breath and turned his attention back to his books.

“Shut up, fairy; I’ll have you know all pussies are magical.”

“You’ll get no arguments from me, but also no enthusiasm.”

Alex scoffed softly, “could you be any gayer?”

“I don’t think so, but I do try.”

 They fell back into silence again, until a sudden, particularly painful squeal had them both cringing. Alex hurriedly shut down her tablet and shoved it away from her.

“Fuck that; that is bullshit. I just need it to pee and look cute! I’ll just keep backdooring it!”

Ian laughed out loud as Alex flailed in despair. “You won’t find a bigger proponent for the backdoor than me, but maybe you shouldn’t knock it until you’ve tried it first?”

“Yeah, says the gold star top,” Alex sneered. “I’ll get to dilating just as soon as you shove one of those monsters up your butt.”

Ian simply grimaced before grinning maddeningly at her. Alex gave up on watching videos and went about copying Ian’s English homework instead, unaware that her friend was periodically glancing at her in uncertainty and excitement. He had been searching for an opening to share his news since he had arrived at the park.

“So…I met a guy,” Ian finally blurted out, making Alex blink up at him in surprise.

She took a minute to process the information and the implications. “Mazel tov! In which museum is he being displayed?”

Ian rolled his eyes magnificently before flipping off his friend. “Fuck off, he’s twenty-two.”

Alex gasped audibly. “Twenty-two?! Are you sure, Ian? Are you certain he wasn’t just singing a Taylor Swift song?”

Ian sighed heavily. “You know what? Just go ahead; get it all out of you system.”

“There has to be something wrong with him,” Alex continued gleefully, “I know you. Stop me when I hit on it. Is he a carnie? Is he a Twilight-esque vampire? Have you ever seen him in direct sunlight? Have you only seen his profile pic because his computer somehow lacks video capabilities? Is he an Ethiopian prince who needs to hide his fortune?”

“I fucking hate you. I’ve met him.”

“Okay, bear with me now, I’ll get there. Might he have that Benjamin Button disease?”

That actually gave Ian pause. “You know what; I can’t actually rule that out yet. It would explain a lot.”

Alex giggled before eyeing Ian suspiciously. “I don’t trust you. I know something is up. Where did you meet him?”

“At my building,” Ian hedged, not adding any more information.

“Okay, no immediate red flags there, I guess,” Alex said and threw her hands up in defeat. “Alright, I give up—what’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing,” Ian sighed dreamily, “he’s perfect. He’s funny and he’s sweet, and he’s kind of adorable when he’s grumpy,” Ian sighed again, “and he’s so hot; it’s ridiculous.”

“Wait a minute, this sounds like you’ve been interacting with this guy for a while now! How am I just hearing about this?” Alex frowned, growing even more suspicious as Ian fussed with the books and appeared to avoid her eyes. She decided to address that later in the interest of hearing more. “So he’s hot, you say?”

“Disgustingly,” Ian moaned and rested his head on the table in miserable frustration. “He has amazing blue eyes, and his hands drive me crazy, and his hair…”

Alex looked at her friend with amusement. “And these amazing eyes, hands and hair are all in the right places, right? He’s not some sort of epic Lovecraftian monster?”

Ian ignored her idiocy to continue bemoaning his hopeless crush. “I just want him to touch me, somewhere, anywhere. It’s driving me insane.”

Alex had never heard Ian talk this way about anyone before. She was surprised and intrigued. “Who is he?”

Ian sighed and sat up. He contemplated Alex and he chewed his inner cheek thoughtfully, and finally admitted what he had been hiding. “He sort of works for Sal.”

Alex straightened in her seat immediately. “He sort of works for Sal? How does one ‘sort of work for Sal’? What does he do, pick up his dry cleaning, shine his shoes?”

“He’s kind of his right hand man?”

“Jesus, Ian!”

Ian waved his hands, trying to cut her off before she was off and running. “I know, alright? I know everything you’re about to say.”

“Do you?!” Alex glared at him incredulously, “when the hell did this Mob fetish start?! And as if Sal wasn’t bad enough, you have to go and get the hots for Sal-lite?!”

“He is nothing like Sal!” Ian snapped suddenly, surprising Alex into silence. Ian calmed down quickly and gave Alex a sheepish smile, “look, it’s just a hopeless crush, okay? I don’t even know if he’s gay. He’s hard to figure out; he eye-fucks everything with a pulse.”

Alex mulled it over for a moment as she regarded her forlorn friend, and decided to look at the situation in a positive light. “Well okay, on the plus side you’re having an age appropriate crush and you seem like you’re actually physically attracted to the guy for once. On a scale of one to ten, how hot are you for this dude?”

Ian thought it over briefly, “about fifty?”

Alex couldn’t help up smile at him in sympathy—the poor guy seemed so lovesick. “That bad, huh?”

“So hot,” Ian whimpered and Alex shook her head.

“I swear to god, your taste in men is going to give me a stroke. I need to keep your dick locked away in a box on top of my fridge until you can present someone who isn’t wildly inappropriate.”

Ian grinned at her. “You don’t want yours, but you’re willing to keep mine?”

“Hey, as long as it’s not mine, I’m a big dick appreciator; a cock connoisseur if you will,” she said and they tittered over the joke. Alex regarded Ian again. Her friend looked flushed and giddy, and happier than she’d ever seen him—just from having a crush. She couldn’t bring herself to deflate him with her portents. “So deets, please? Tell me everything. What’s Benjamin Button’s real name?”

“Mickey,” Ian made it sound like a song, “Mickey Milkovich.”

* * *

“So we were haggling over the price of the yayo, and then one thing just kind of led to another, you know? I’ve known this nigga for years; didn’t even know he got down like that,” Dre informed Mickey while he went about scrambling eggs for his evening meal, “he ended up giving me a real good price though. But then it dawns on me that I literally let him hit it because he slings cocaine. My life has turned into a Nicki Minaj song. Can you believe this shit?”

Mickey had no idea what Dre was jabbering on about. He was busy checking out a message that had come in on his phone. It was a picture of a sunset with an attached message. _“This is an emergency. You could have missed this amazing sunset.”_ Mickey ran his tongue along his inner cheek as he fought back a smile. Another message followed in quick succession, this time with Ian’s face grinning dumbly up at him in front of the aforementioned sunset; his red hair fading perfectly into the halo of the setting sun. _“Just in case you thought it was a stock photo or something.”_ A selfie with a sunset—it was like his idiot was trying to kill him. No, Sal’s idiot, not his. These slips were getting worse and worse with each passing day. Mickey was brought back to reality by a pair of rolled up socks smacking into his head.

“What is your malfunction?!”

Dre was unimpressed, “how about in the future I just leave my dick out on the bed for you and piss off, so you don’t have to deal with the weight of my sparkling personality?”

“Be honest, have you said anything of the least bit of importance since I got here?”

“Bitch,” Dre grumbled and eyed Mickey speculatively, “what’s going on with you?”

“What do you mean?” Mickey murmured, getting distracted once again by the sunset selfie. He was going to have to bury it deep in the recesses of his phone and pretend to be pissed at Ian, but he was definitely keeping it.

Dre was watching the scene with growing interest. “You’re acting kinda shady, all distracted and smiling to yourself and shit.”

“Forgive me, I have a lot on my mind,” Mickey said dryly, “and Iggy just told me a joke. I’m allowed to laugh at my brother’s jokes.”

“What the joke?”

“What?”

“What’s the funny joke that’s got you all smiley and shit?” Dre’s disbelief and amusement were evident and growing by the second.

Mickey was caught flat-footed. “It wasn’t a joke-joke, just a funny picture…”

“Okay, lemme see it,” Dre said and pushed away from the kitchen counter to slowly advanced on Mickey.

“It’s a joke about Outfit business; so just mind yours,” Mickey eyed Dre warily and quickly pocketed his phone.

Dre was undeterred. “You see, I don’t think it’s any Outfit business. I think you’re acting all goofy over some new dick.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey scoffed, “you don’t know shit.”

“Show me the phone then,” Dre said while flexing his shoulders, obviously gearing up to get physical. Mickey only crossed his arms and stared at him stone-faced.

“Just admit it’s some new dick that’s got you all twisted and I’ve leave you alone,” Dre offered magnanimously.

“Fuck.Off.”

There was a brief standoff before Dre finally lunged for Mickey. It was an embarrassingly short match. Mickey managed to dance out of the way of Dre’s charge and went right for his hair.

“Ow, ow, ow! Get the fuck off me, Mickey!” Dre wailed while his opponent tightened his grip on his locks.

“Say uncle.”

“If you fuck up my hair, bitch!”

“None of those words is ‘uncle,’” Mickey pointed out and Dre finally relented.

Dre fumed as Mickey finally let him up. “What kind of self-respecting, grown-ass man pulls hair? What were you going to do next, knee me in the crotch?”

“You’re lucky, that’s usually my first move,” Mickey said through a mouthful of eggs. Honestly, the audacity of the whole thing.

“I’m going to figure it out eventually, you know,” Dre grumbled and headed straight for his mirror to check on his hair.

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

* * *

Ian loved this feeling, hitting the wall and pushing through it, just forcing his body beyond its limits. He had lost track of how long he was running. It was just him and his music in the zone, and he wanted to keep going forever.

He thought better when he ran. The irrelevant stuff fell away and the world quieted. He knew he needed to get a grip. His feelings for Mickey were getting far out of hand and if he didn’t figure it out soon, there would be no way to rein them in. He needed to rid himself of his romantic notions and step outside the attraction. Mickey was an impossibility. It didn’t matter whether or not Mickey was gay, it just wasn’t going to happen. Mickey’s relationship with Sal was one of the most complicated things Ian could imagine and Sal himself was a dangerous, volatile wildcard. The best thing to do—the only smart thing—would be to starve his crush and wind it down.

Granted, he wasn’t entirely sure how to do that. Mickey occupied his mind in a way that was bordering on a little scary. Mickey made him feel good—about  himself, about life, just good in general—and he was loathed to give it up. Still it wasn’t just about him. Even in the best case scenario where Mickey was into him too and they both wanted a relationship, the very last thing he wanted to do was disrupt Mickey’s relationship with Sal, and put him the mob boss’s crosshairs. No, he needed to squash this and he needed to set his mind to it. No more seeking Mickey out, no more daydreaming, and he should probably cut back on the cologne scented self-love a little. Sal’s innocuous gift was turning him into the weirdest, kinkiest junkie.

He finally stopped running. He doubled over panting and willed the lightheaded feeling to pass. When he was finally able to straighten up and look around, he was surprised to find that he had no idea where he was, having been too deep in thought to take in his surroundings. Ian sighed and turned to retrace his steps, hoping he’d get back to familiar ground soon. He was barely able to go—his legs felt like overcooked spaghetti –and clearly he was going to pay dearly for his hubris. At least he’d come to a firm decision about his most pressing problem.

A few minutes later, he was forced to stop walking for a bit. His body screamed in protest with every move he made. As he stood still on the sidewalk, desperate for some kind of second wind, he heard the low growl of an engine creeping up behind him. Every hair on his body stood on end and that now familiar tingling was out in full force. Ian wasn’t sure if the universe really loved him or seriously despised him.

“What the fuck are you doing all the way out here?” Mickey slowed to a stop at Ian’s feet.

Of course, on the day when Ian decided he was done with Mickey Milkovich, the universe would send him and his leather jacket, packaged in a feral, classic black Mustang, straight to Ian. Was it love or hate? Ian wished he knew.

“I was trying to outrun gay thoughts,” Ian said and smiled tiredly at Mickey.

“Oh yeah? How’d that work out for you?” Mickey leaned back in his seat and grinned at Ian.

“Not so good,” Ian shrugged and swallowed anxiously. He didn’t know where to look. Mickey’s smile was making his knees weaker and, true to form, Mickey’s hand was all over the stick. “Seems like it makes no sense to try and outrun them; they’ll roll up on me anyway.”

Mickey’s smile exploded into a laugh, and there was no way anyone could convince Ian that Mickey didn’t know exactly what he was implying.

“You’re miles from your place and you look like you’re about to drop. Get in,” Mickey offered, giving a small toss of his head towards the passenger seat.

_“Right, I’ll just climb into your dumb, sexy car, with your dumb, sexy hair and watch you work that stick like a pro. No big deal.”_ It was confirmed as far as Ian was concerned; this was the devil at work.

“I can’t,” Ian said sheepishly. “I’ve been sweating like a pig. I’m gross.”

“No, you’re not,” Mickey said softly, his tongue trailing along his lower lip as he looked Ian up and down. “You look fine to me.”

This was exactly the type of shit that made Ian want to strangle him to death.

“I don’t want to mess up your car,” Ian said a touch desperately, now barely clinging to the promise he just made, “your brothers told me how you are about your ‘babies’.”

“That’s okay; you’re allowed,” Mickey said simply. He gazed at Ian as he lit up a cigarette, “so you coming or what?”

Ian nodded meekly, just grateful his clothes managed to stay on during all of that. He climbed gingerly into the Mustang and buckled up, far too conscious of how much closer Mickey was in this car as opposed to the Escalade.

“So you restored this?” Ian croaked.

“Mmhmm,” Mickey said, making one of Ian’s favourite sounds.

“It’s awesome, you’re awe—it’s awesome,” Ian gibbered before sighing and looking out the window. Fucking mortifying.

“Wanna see what it can do?” Mickey asked and peeled off immediately.

The speed and power of the car had Ian nearly swallowing his tongue, but that had nothing on the beauty of watching Mickey change gears. By the time they found a decent stretch of road where Mickey could push it into top gear, Ian was convinced he had found his new religion. Mickey Milkovich in a classic muscle car. Could anything be sexier?

* * *

The one drawback to powering home in a muscle car, was that it felt far too soon when they pulled up in front of Ian’s building. Mickey parked and they both sat quietly and awkwardly for a moment; Ian unwilling to leave and Mickey unwilling for him to go.

“So, you’re not going to come sweep my apartment for bad guys?” Ian asked at length.

Mickey chuckled and fiddled with the steering wheel. “Nah, I only violate your privacy when I’m on the clock. I’m doing other things right now.”

Ian was filled with burning curiosity. “So what do you do on your day off?”

Mickey shrugged, “mostly random nonsense. Usually I just keep driving and see how far I get before I freak out and turn back.”

Mickey regretted it the second it was out of his mouth. He didn’t know what it was about Ian that so easily dragged mortifying honesty out of him, but he wished it would stop. He glanced over at Ian anxiously, afraid he had embarrassed himself or had come off sounding monumentally stupid. He tried his best to shrug it off.

“It’s just…it’s dumb,” Mickey said lamely.

“No, it isn’t; I get it,” Ian said softly and stared out at the stretch of road ahead of them. He ran, Mickey drove, but it seemed as if neither of them was getting anywhere. “Is that what you’re going to do now?”

Mickey shrugged before finally nodding , red-faced, sheepishly admitting his plans. His next words were out his mouth before he even knew what was happening. “Wanna come? See how far I get this time?”

“Yes,” Ian responded before Mickey had even finished his sentence. They both sat in silence, surprised at each other and themselves. Ian sniffed his shirt and looked over at Mickey with a grimace. “Can I just take a quick shower first? I’m seriously gross.”

“Uh sure, okay…I’ll just wait.”

Ian rolled his eyes and grinned broadly at Mickey and his fluster. “You’re just going to sit out here the whole time while I shower and change? Don’t be dumb, come on. You know you want to sweep my apartment anyway.”

Mickey watched as Ian got out the car and headed off purposefully towards his building. This was a bad idea wrapped in a terrible idea inside the worst idea, but Mickey was soon out of the car and going after his redhead. Moths can’t help being sucked in by the flame.

The second Ian hit his apartment he started stripping, not sparing a thought for the gaping man behind him. He tossed his shirt down at the foot of the bed and glanced over his shoulder as Mickey hovered at the door.

“Just sit anywhere,” he told Mickey as he kicked off his sneakers and socks, and pulled down his pants. He grinned when Mickey nodded jerkily and glanced around the tiny apartment, looking for safety.

Ian was loving Mickey’s fluster and knew that it was his disrobing that was causing it. Granted, he didn’t know if Mickey was doing the straight guy thing of checking out another man’s body out of some innate need to compete and compare, or if he was doing the not-straight thing and checking him out because he was attracted. Ian hoped it was the latter, but it didn’t particularly matter; not right then. In any event, Ian was feeling emboldened. The one thing he knew was the effect his body had on other men, whether it was intimidating or attracting, and the fewer clothes he had on, the more powerful he always felt. It was why it felt so amazing on stage at the clubs, the reason he never had “naked in public” nightmares, and the reason he was in no particular hurry to disappear into the bathroom while Mickey blushed up a storm because he was standing there clad only in his boxer-briefs. He decided to give Mickey a break and quickly grabbed some fresh underwear and headed off to the bathroom.

Mickey shed his jacket after Ian disappeared into the bathroom. His body had warmed so much, he could feel sweat dampening his forehead and prickling at the back of his neck. He heard the shower turn on and closed his eyes to steel against the sound. What the fuck was he doing? Why had he come up here? What the hell was he doing asking Gallagher to take a ride with him? He doubted there was even a word that could encapsulate just how much he was fucking up right now.

He licked his lips nervously and tried not to think of Ian naked under a stream of water just mere feet away. He tried to distract himself by pacing and glancing around the apartment while he waited. Naturally, the only other thing he could focus on was the wrought iron bed tucked into the corner of the apartment, separated from the large window only by a small night table. It was fairly large for such a tiny place, maybe a queen sized bed. It looked old as hell and so elaborate compared to the rest of Ian’s modest furnishings.

Mickey edged closer to it. It probably made more noise than a motherfucker when someone moved around on it. He sat on the edge of the bed and bounced a little, smiling when the bed groaned and squeaked in protest. He wondered idly about just how much of a work out this bed got from Ian, if he took a lot of guys here or rather kept his space intensely private the same way Mickey did. Mickey turned and ran his fingers down one of the spindly columns of the headboard, before gripping and shaking it a little to see if the headboard smacked easily against the wall.

His imagination was off and running. He could see himself kneeling in the bed, his hands gripping the columns tightly while Ian took him hard and fast from behind. He could practically feel Ian’s blunted nails digging into his hips and the sweet heat against his back as he pushed back against Ian’s thrusts. He imagined Ian getting him off like no one else before him could manage, and fuck if he wouldn’t return the favour with gusto. Ian was wasted on Sal; it was an injustice and a crying shame. Sal didn’t know what to do with Ian; couldn’t possibly know what to do with him. Ian with Sal was like watching a stodgy senior citizen drive a brand new, fire red Lamborghini in the city, just creeping in traffic, never once getting to open up and even taste a little of its potential. Mickey would know what to do with Ian—he would rock his whole fucking world.

There was a loud clatter as something fell in the bathroom and Mickey shot off the bed as if it was on fire. He stood panting, trying and failing to feign cool ease as he checked to see if Ian had caught him in his raunchy reverie. The bathroom door was still locked, however, and the shower was still running and he could hear Ian’s muffled singing. Mickey relaxed and once again looked to the bed. He raised an eyebrow at something  poking out from beneath it and he stooped down to investigate. It was a picture of Ian that must have drifted under there at some point. It made Mickey smile—there was Ian in a beanie, smirk firmly in place and flipping off the camera. Mickey’s lopsided grin hitched higher as he trailed a finger along Ian’s face. The bathroom door flew open and Mickey quickly and instinctively pocketed the picture.

“I hope I didn’t take too long,” Ian said as he stepped out, “were you bored?”

Mickey shook his head and struggled not to ogle too hard at Ian’s towel clad form. He headed around the bed to peer through the curtains of the window, distracting himself while Ian quickly pulled on clothes.

“Okay,” Ian sighed happily and grinned broadly at Mickey, “let’s go.”

* * *

It wasn’t a date, Mickey told himself as he grabbed a six pack out of the fridge at the supermarket. He had left Ian in the car while he ran in to get a few things, just beer, sandwiches and chips. It wasn’t a date. Friends take joyrides all the time. The food was just him being practical and considerate. It’s not like he could invite a guy for a ride and not provide him with as much as a snack. It wasn’t a date.

He ignored the way his heart flipped hard when Ian beamed at him as he got back into the car. He handed Ian a bag of chips and tucked the beer and the food behind the car seats. “Don’t get crumbs all over my shit,” he grumbled and stole another glance at that amazing face. Fucker was the living embodiment of a sunrise…or a sunset, or both. Shit, what was he even saying? This non-date was just the worst idea.

* * *

It was the furthest Mickey had ever been before outside of being on a run. Between the laughing and the easy conversation, they were well into Milwaukee before Mickey’s nerves started getting the better of him. Ian could sense Mickey tightening up and saw the way his brow furrowed as they pushed forward. He fought the urge to stroke Mickey’s thigh soothingly. Instead, he pointed to an open lot which turned out to be a small hill overlooking a sports field, where some high school kids were practising football drills.

Mickey parked beneath one of the huge trees and they both got out to stretch their legs. The sun was starting to set and Ian took in the beauty of it while breathing in the cool, evening air. It felt good to be far away from everything, it felt even better just being with Mickey. He watched as Mickey came around and leaned easily on the hood of the car. Ian simply stared; it was like something out of a magazine. During the ride, they had been laughing and talking so much, there hadn’t been a chance for their usual heavy sexual tension to settle, but now it was back in full force. Mickey held out a beer and then nodded to the empty space next to him on the hood of the car.

“You can sit on the hood; I won’t mind.”

“Man, if I had a nickel for every time a dude said that to me.” They both snickered and Ian took the beer and carefully sat on the hood of the car, scooting as close to Mickey as he dared.

“This is kind of cool,” Mickey admitted quietly, “me and my brothers used to sneak into ball games all the time when I was a kid. Later on I’d mostly just park up  on hills like this and just watch the games from the distance. Still didn’t have to pay, and I preferred it to all the noise and shit.”

“Hmm, frugality, avoidance of social interaction and a dislike of loud noises…I guess it’s typical of people who grew up during the Depression.”

Mickey choked on his beer. “You making fun of me, asshole?”

“No, never! I have nothing but love and respect for my elders,” Ian said with all the mock seriousness he could muster.

“Yeah, I know. I’ve seen it.”

The spectre of Sal immediately dampened the moment and they fell silent, sipping their beers while they watched the drills.

“So what other grumpy old man things do you like to do?” Ian asked at length, desperate to reclaim the moment.

Mickey smiled and shook his head before giving Ian a sidelong glance. “Why do you insist on making fun of me, Gallagher? You should know better; I’m a scary guy. You don’t make fun of bad men.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think you’re so bad,” Ian said, rolling the beer can carefully in his hands while he returned Mickey’s sidelong look.

“You don’t, huh? That the kind of reasoning ability you brought to the army, washout?”

“Oh, so now you’re making fun of me?!”

“No, never,” Mickey said, eyes wide and affronted, “you think I’d make fun of an almost veteran? You’re just so brave and army strong and—” he burst out laughing when Ian shoved him.

“I wish I had something to hit you with,” Ian said.

They sipped their beers slowly and killed time, pretending to watch the football game below while they basked in each other’s company. Ian knew it wouldn’t be long before it was nightfall and he and Mickey would be heading back. He glanced down at Mickey’s hand resting on the hood of the car between them, and wondered to himself just how much he could get away with in that moment.

“Have you ever taken anyone else with you on one of these rides? Like your girlfriend maybe?” Ugh, it was the lamest attempt at fishing, but Ian needed a distraction from dangerous thoughts and he needed to know just how hopeless his crush really was.

Mickey shook his head. “Nah, and Svetlana isn’t exactly the adventurous type.”

“Svetlana?!” Ian echoed hollowly, all the air suddenly sucked out of him. “You’re dating a whore?!”

“What’s wrong with whores?!” Mickey snapped defensively. Shit, yet another thing he shouldn’t have said. It wasn’t as if he could explain the mutualism that was his relationship with Svetlana—protection for her, a beard for him. He knew Ian was curious, especially about his sexuality, and he knew he hadn’t done nearly enough to quell Ian’s curiosity and interest. It was stupid, but the last thing he wanted was for Ian to lose interest completely, even though it would be the best thing for the both of them. Now he had accidentally admitted to having a “girlfriend” and he could see Ian recoiling.

“Nothing, never mind,” Ian mumbled miserably and stared unseeingly down at the field. He couldn’t believe how much it hurt. It was as if Mickey had just up and stabbed him in the chest. He knew he had no right to be upset, but that didn’t stop the crushing feeling. So there had been no chance from the very beginning? Of course there wasn’t; he was the dumbest idiot alive. “Can we go now? I’ve got a bunch of reading to do.”

Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose before running a hand through his hair in agitation. He should have known he would have fucked this up royally somehow. He nodded and slid off the car. “Yeah, okay.”

* * *

The beginning of the journey back home was the polar opposite of the journey away from it. Both were quiet and subdued as they headed back into Chicago. Still, it was hard to stay cold. Before long, the stolen glances started again and the desperation to re-establish the connection overtook them.

“It’s not even that serious or anything,” Mickey said softly, “I mean, she’s from my old neighbourhood and she helps me run the Rub and Tug….it’s just easy, you know? It’s not like a Harlequin romance or anything.” It was as far as he could go without flat out admitting to the fraudulence of the relationship. Still, that was all Ian needed.

“Yeah, I know how it is,” Ian whispered, staring at Mickey’s profile as the passing street lights illuminated it in flashes. He knew exactly how it was.

By the time Mickey parked in front of his building, Ian had done all the mental gymnastics necessary to bring him back to his sweet spot as it concerned Mickey. Svetlana didn’t matter, no more than Sal did. Even the vow he’d made just hours earlier to put Mickey Milkovich out of his mind had been forgotten. All that mattered was them, now, here, together in Mickey’s car where nothing else and no one else existed. They sat quietly for a while with the engine idling, until Mickey’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it and sighed.

“Looks like I’m back on the clock,” Mickey looked over at Ian. “Have fun with all that reading, college boy.”

Ian scoffed and reluctantly got out of the car. He shut Mickey’s door and stood on the curb, his heart pounding away in his throat. This was hopeless. How could anyone get so fucked up so quickly?

In his car, Mickey was thinking the very same thing. He leaned across and called to Ian through the passenger window. “Hey, Gallagher!” he licked his lower lip and smiled shyly when Ian leaned back in through the window. “The next time I try this shit, should I come pick you up?”

“Yeah,” Ian breathed, his smile broad and bright, “please.”

“Yeah, okay,” Mickey huffed quietly, his fluster evident, “maybe we’ll make it into Canada next time.”

Ian nodded back. Maybe they’d make it to Canada; shit, maybe they’d stay. Ian backed away and waved lamely as Mickey peeled off, roaring off into the night. He barely made it to his room before he collapsed on the floor with a groan, his body shuddering from exhaustion and upheaval and everything in between. He texted Alex a goodnight message with two simple words: _“I’m doomed.”_

* * *

“Sal wants to see ya.”

Ian didn’t immediately register what Mickey was saying, given that he was busy registering Mickey. God bless the Brooks brothers and the suits they made. Mickey had a preference for dark suits and solid coloured ties, and Ian was being thoroughly being distracted by the silver tie nestled beneath the dark vest.

“You have some kind of prejudice against patterns or something?” Ian asked, trying to cover his assessment.

Mickey smoothed his tie and turned big puppy eyes on Ian. “What, you don’t like it? It’s the Regis Philbin look,” he grinned and waggled his eyebrows at Ian, “now go on, get pretty. Sal’s having a shindig.”

“‘Shindig,’ really? Can you at least try to pretend you’re not an AARP member trapped in a young man’s body?”

“Today, please? Thank you.”

* * *

They pulled up to the _“Sandrini’s,”_ a bar owned by one of Sal’s made men. Ian was ready to climb out of the Escalade, but a sharp click of Mickey’s tongue stopped him in his tracks.

“Okay, a few words of advice before you go in there…”

Ian blinked at him. “Wait, you’re not coming?”

“Have some other business to take care of,” he smiled apologetically at Ian’s crestfallen face. “Look, when you go in there, you’re not Sal’s side piece. You are whoever the fuck he says you are: nephew, cousin, whatever—just go with it. Nothing but a bunch of dumb wise guys in there and they can get real fucking traditional and old school pretty fucking fast. Someone comes onto you, tell them to fuck off. A lot of them either know or suspect Sal is an old queen, and all they need is a little confirmation to make a move on him and take him out.”

Ian was dumbfounded, “why the hell would he want me here?!”

“Because he feels the two of you haven’t been spending a lot of time together lately. Plus he can be a fucking idiot sometimes, and likes to think he’s untouchable. He gets that way when he’s choking on the nose candy, which brings me to my next point,” Mickey frowned at Ian, “Sal parties hard. Do not try to keep up with him because you can’t.”

“How are you going to tell me what I can manage? You think I’m some kind of lightweight? I’m Southside—”

“I don’t care if you’re Captain Morgan from Blue Hawaii. Everyone’s a lightweight when compared to Sal. He offers you party favours, just politely turn him down. I’m serious, Gallagher. You get fucked up and I’m the one cleaning up the mess.”

* * *

The place was a mess. How a bunch of old guys would wreck a whole bar within a few hours was a marvel to Mickey. It looked like a crime scene, but for the hired strippers swaying lazily on the bar top. There were bodies everywhere, men passed out at the bar, on the floor and around tables. He rolled his eyes and stepped over the unconscious bodies—carefully for some, not so carefully for others—and went searching for his ward.

He found Sal passed out cold behind the couch in one of the side rooms, and there was Ian fast asleep on the couch. Mickey could only sigh. “Jesus Christ, Ian,” he muttered beneath his breath and went to get him after he checked Sal’s pulse.

“Gallagher?” Mickey stood over Ian and shook him lightly, but Ian didn’t even stir. Mickey sighed again and sat at the edge of the couch for a minute, watching Ian sleep.  

He peeked over the back of the couch again and double checked to make sure Sal was still out. He turned his attention back to Ian and lightly shook his shoulder again. He bit back a smile when Ian fussed grumpily and kept on sleeping. He leaned forward slightly and brushed the hair out of Ian’s face before sliding his hand down the side of Ian’s face. He grinned when Ian instinctively burrowed against his palm.

“I warned you, idiot,” he sighed and shook Ian hard.

Ian finally grunted awake. He looked around the room, blinking owlishly until he settled on a very unimpressed Mickey. He grinned goofily, high as a kite. “Hi, Mick!”

Mickey rolled his eyes and got to his feet, and dragged Ian along with him. Ian managed to get to his feet before pitching wildly sideways. Mickey grabbed for him quickly and just narrowly stopped him from face-planting. When he tugged Ian upright again, Ian’s unholy grin was back.

“Hi, Mick!”

“Say ‘hi, Mick’ again, one more fucking time!”

“Hi, Mi—”

“Shut the fuck up, you idiot,” Mickey sighed and heaved a giggling Ian over his shoulder.

“You have a great ass, Mickey!” Ian blurted drunkenly.

“Jesus, just shut up until we get outside, alright?!

They managed to get out without incident and Mickey wasted no time hustling Ian into the backseat of the car. That was the easy part. The real struggle was getting a defiantly snoring Ian out again and up the elevator to his apartment. It was only an hour or two before the dawn and Mickey had to drag a six-foot jackass down a narrow corridor as quietly as he could. By the time he propped Ian against his apartment door, the redhead was somewhat awake and in a giddy mood.

“Hi, Mick!”

“I will punch your teeth down your throat, I swear to fucking god,” Mickey hissed, “where are your keys?”

“Pocket,” Ian tapped his right trouser pocket.

“Give them to me.”

“Get ‘em,” Ian challenged.

Mickey shook his head in disbelief—what was his life right now? He looked at Ian’s pocket and contemplated fishing for the keys. He then decided breaking and entering was the much safer option. He jimmied Ian’s door open and yanked him bodily inside.

“What did I fucking say about partying with Sal?!”

“I’m not a lightweight! You’re not…boss…” Ian slurred and briefly gave up trying to string words together as he was dragged inside his apartment. He soon made another valiant effort, “you should let me take care of you, Mick.”

Oh, the irony. Mickey grinned as he propped Ian against the wall once more and closed the door. “Take care of me, huh? You trying to turn me out, Gallagher?”

“Yeah,” he surprised Mickey suddenly by grabbing him by the lapels of his trench coat and shoving him up against the door.

“Mmm,” Mickey grunted softly at he bumped up against the door, surprised and impressed by Ian’s momentary drunken coordination and aggression.

“I love it when you make that sound,” Ian whispered, still clinging tightly to Mickey’s coat lapels to maintain his balance, “I want you to make more sounds.”

Mickey would make whatever sound Ian wanted, but not when he was three sheets to the wind. “Gallagher, you’re drunk, you’re high and you’re not thinking clearly.”

“Never been clearer 'bout anything,” Ian said breathily, “why are there two of you?”

“Gallagher, you need to sleep this off,” Mickey’s voice was soft and he kept his itching hands firmly at his sides.

“No, I need to…I need to kiss you,” Ian laughed and swayed tantalizingly close before his gaze narrowed on Mickey’s lips. “Can I?”

Mickey inhaled sharply, suddenly finding himself trapped in a surreal moment. “I don’t know, can you?” Mickey said softly and raised a challenging eyebrow, “I’m not the boss of you, right?”

Mickey kept his hands at his sides while he did his own mental gymnastics in an attempt to square what was about to happen. He wasn’t touching Ian—wasn’t going to touch him—so he was just there being passive, minding his own business. He didn’t even fucking like kissing. Ian’s hands slid further up the lapels of Mickey’s coat and managed to move even closer. Mickey’s eyes fluttered closed, the anticipation overtaking him.

The kiss never came. What came instead was a dull thud and a groan as Ian slid sideways and crumpled to the ground. Mickey could have strangled him. Instead he sighed, rolled his eyes heavenward, and heaved Ian into his bed. He removed Ian’s socks and shoes, and took his coat; he was taking no chances on the rest. He then sat on the edge of the bed and hesitated briefly before stroking his face tenderly.

“Don’t get sucked into this, Gallagher,” Mickey said sombrely, “there’s nothing here for you. You’re going to ride it out then get going. I’m making sure of that.”

Mickey pulled his hand away, forcing himself to ignore the way Ian’s entire body protested the deprivation. He had to go anyway. His job was only half done.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gold star top: A gay man who has never bottomed.  
> Yayo: (Llello or nose candy) slang for cocaine.  
> Wise guy: Mobster  
> Turn out: To give someone their first orgasm, or first good sexual encounter.


	9. Fighting Temptations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end notes for Glossary. All thoughts and comments are welcomed.

“Sal wants to see ya.”

Ian rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly as he regarded Mickey. It had been a couple of days since Sal’s party and Ian’s recollection was cloudy at best and non-existent at worst. The small snatches of memory and the few foggy images that floated up to him made Ian worry that he might have acted somewhat inappropriately. He had been fretting about it nonstop. He wasn’t sure what parts were memories, dreams or just fantasies, and Mickey’s knowing smirk wasn’t helping matters any.

Ian didn’t say much until they were in the car. He eyed Mickey nervously as they set off, and drummed his fingers on his knee. Finally he couldn’t take it anymore.

“So that was some party the other night, huh?”

Mickey looked over at him briefly before turning his attention back to the road. “So it would appear.”

“I might have overdone it a little bit,” Ian admitted and had the good grace to redden when Mickey’s eyebrows spelt out “no shit.” He cleared his throat and hazarded another glance at his driver. “Did you take me home?”

“Somebody had to.”

Clearly Mickey wasn’t going to volunteer the information he needed, judging from the teasing smirk that had yet to leave his face. Ian sighed heavily and decided to get it over with.

“I’m not a lightweight or anything, but sometimes I can react a little funny when I drink,” he hesitated as Mickey’s smirk hitched a little higher. “Did I do anything I need to apologize for?”

Mickey was flat out grinning now—the bastard—but stayed mum. Ian was going to throttle him.

“Mickey!”

“What?” Mickey laughed. He had torturing Ian down to a fine art.

“Well did I?”

“Nah, man, you were a perfect gentleman. My virtue is still intact and everything,” Mickey grinned at him and Ian relaxed a little, though he didn’t quite trust Mickey and that smile of his.

“You have virtue?” Ian teased back as he slumped into his seat.

“You don’t believe me? I’m as pure as the driven snow,” Mickey said, looking scandalized.

“Sure…”

“You don’t know my life,” Mickey looked across at him slyly, “I could be waiting for someone to take care of me; someone who can really turn me out.”

Ian’s brow furrowed even as heat slowly crept up from his neck and warmed his face. He vaguely remembered hearing something like that in his jumble of memory and dreams. Mickey Milkovich had to be the shadiest person on the face of the Earth.

“Hey, Gallagher, can I ask you something?”

The question was soft and Mickey seemed to be hesitating over it, and it made Ian curious, apprehensive and hopeful all at once. Ian nodded and watched in anticipation as Mickey slowly rubbed his lower lip and glanced over at him.

“You and Sal,” Mickey began at length, and Ian’s heart dropped into his shoes. “I don’t really get it. I mean, why him?” Mickey started to babble on a bit, trying to explain himself without sounding too disparaging of his boss. “It’s just that Sal’s not exactly the Romeo type, you know, and you could get anybody looking the way you do.”

Now it was Ian’s turn to smirk, “what, you think I’m pretty, Mickey?”

Mickey gave Ian an exasperated glance, but his reddening face was giving the game away. “You’re alright, I guess, but seriously… I mean you gotta like him a lot, right? You wouldn’t be with him if you didn’t, would you?”

Ian shrugged noncommittally; the last thing on his mind lately was Sal Boerio. “Yeah, I mean, he’s nice to me.”

“He’s nice to you?” Mickey echoed in surprise. Shit, was that all it took?

Ian shrugged again, “He buys me stuff; orders me room service,” he said and trailed off lamely, at a loss as to what else there was to say.

“Oh.”

That one little word was all Ian needed to know that he had fucked up somewhere. He looked over at Mickey who was now staring silently ahead, all trace of his earlier humour gone. Yeah, he had definitely fucked up.

He replayed Mickey’s question and his answer in his head. His answer had been a little flippant and careless, and in retrospect, he realized it made him sound shallow. He glanced over at Mickey again before staring down at his lap as he twisted his fingers nervously. It’s not as if he could have done a better job if he had taken the question seriously anyway. How could he explain his penchant for men like Sal Boerio and his ilk? He had just made himself sound like some kind of expensive escort—all opportunism and transactional sex—and it wasn’t that way at all.

How could he even begin to explain his myriad of issues and the weird, sucking void they left in him? Still, he was desperate for some kind of do-over with Mickey’s question. He was tempted to just give him Dr. Lester’s number and have her expertly explain all the ways he was fucked up and why, in spite of all that, Mickey shouldn’t run screaming for the hills. He quickly put the thought out of his mind, however, because he was fairly certain Mickey would give him the widest berth after hearing just how much crazy was stored in his head.

“He listens to me,” he added at length and earned a sceptical look from Mickey. Ian decided it was probably best to just stay quiet for the rest of the ride to the hotel.

The silence of the ride was interrupted by Mickey’s cell phone going off. Mickey quickly answered it, listened silently before muttering a confused sounding “okay” and then hung up.

“Looks like you’re going to have to postpone the room service for a while,” Mickey said dryly and Ian winced, “Sal wants us to meet him at the pool house.”

This couldn’t be good. “Why, what’s happening?”

“Fuck if I know,” Mickey sighed, “let’s go find out.”

* * *

Sal was nowhere to be found when they got to the pool house. In fact, there wasn’t anyone there at all. He had already been there twice, but it felt and looked like an entirely new place to Ian. It was the first time he had been there without the imminent threat of someone committing murder, and his eyes were everywhere the moment they stepped into the foyer.

“I seriously can’t believe this is a pool house.”

“There’re pool noodles and shit in that closet behind you,” Mickey said, nodding to the white closet right near the front door while he checked his phone. “Sal says he’ll be here in a few.”

“Well, since we’re waiting and nothing seems to be on fire, you wanna give me a tour?” Ian gave Mickey a hopeful smile and Mickey looked back at him uncertainly as he lit up a cigarette.

“It’s not a big deal. It’s certainly got nothing on the main house. You’d probably be more interested in that.”

Ian didn’t miss the dig. “Mickey, come on, you know I’m not like that. It just came out wrong.”

They were still standing near the front door. Mickey pulled on his cigarette and eyed Ian critically. Jesus, sometimes it was hard to look directly at the fucker—it was beautiful and painful all at the same time. Mickey knew that he’d let Ian’s response bother him far more than it should have. Shit, anyone who had to put up with Sal’s crap deserved to be compensated, but Mickey hadn’t liked the implications. In that moment after Ian had answered him, all he heard was Jaime’s voice ringing in his ears with a resounding “I told you so.”

Now, Ian was turning big, green puppy eyes on him, making him melt and turning him into every pathetic man ever to fall for the stripper with the heart of dubious gold. He honestly didn’t believe Ian was like that, but wouldn’t it be best if he didn’t put himself in the position to be proven wrong?

“Mick, come on.”

Fuck, why was he already this weak? He’d hear people talk about how their significant others would look at them “like that” and render them powerless, and Mickey had thought it was the stupidest shit he’d ever heard. Now here he was, putty in someone’s hands, wholeheartedly believing he wasn’t a gold digger despite evidence to the contrary.

“Come on,” Mickey capitulated, blissfully defeated, “I’ll give you the grand tour.”

They walked straight ahead out of the small foyer into the living room, with its huge leather sectional sofa and chairs, and the center table that probably had enough cocaine residue on it to choke a horse. A giant flat screen TV hung on the wall separating the living room from the kitchen.  Mickey wasn’t the most verbose tour guide. He nodded at the living room, then led Ian into the kitchen and simply said “kitchen,” before pointing to a door off to left, “guest bathroom.”

Ian loved the modern looking kitchen, and admired the kitchen island and the matching black stools surrounding it. There was a breakfast nook next to the huge bay windows and Ian wondered how much use Mickey and his brothers made of the room. Could any of them even cook? He almost lost track of Mickey when the man disappeared through another door. He jogged to catch up.

“Basement,” Mickey nodded and flipped on the lights before heading down the steps.

Ian didn’t have to guess that this was Milkovich central. Not far from the base of the steps was a poker table, and beyond that, a pool table. The upstairs living room was also replicated with another massive TV and comfortable couches. Mickey turned back to head upstairs.

“What’s down there?” Ian asked, indicating the dimly-lit rear of the basement.

“You don’t worry about that,” Mickey said and paused close to Ian, completely distracting the redhead with his sudden closeness, “wherever I show you is all you need to see, right?”

Ian nodded mutely, having forgotten what it was he had even been asking. Mickey tugged on Ian’s coat and pulled him upstairs. “Come on.”

The last bit of the breakneck tour was the on the second floor. They climbed the short, spiral staircase near the foyer and Mickey pointed out the three rooms.

“Room at the end is Sal’s office, sort of. He doesn’t really do shit in there, nothing productive at least. Still, you don’t go in there. He keeps it locked anyway, ” Mickey said and then nodded to the two opposing rooms closer to the stairs. “One on the left is Mandy’s room, one on the right is mine,” Mickey then opened his room door and let Ian peek inside.    

It was like staring into the Promised Land. Ian eagerly took in the rumpled bed, and the requisite Scarface and death metal posters doing battle with the sunny airiness of the room. There were little knickknacks everywhere, and a dresser filled with toiletries next to a floor length mirror. Ian couldn’t help but grin at the image of Mickey getting ready and preening in front of it.

“It’s just you and your sister? None of your brothers crash here?”

Mickey shook his head. “Linda says me and Mandy are the only ones allowed to live on the property. I guess because we were the babies?”

“Linda?!”

Mickey blinked at Ian’s shocked outburst. “Yeah, Linda…Sal’s wife?”

“Her name is Linda?” Ian nearly peed. After Kash’s wife, Ian vowed to steer well clear of pissing off any more Lindas.

“You’ve been fucking with Sal for months now. How the fuck did you not know this?” Mickey asked, looking at Ian askance.

“Well, he called her a whole lot of things when he talked about her, but never her name,” Ian admitted sheepishly. Honestly, he hadn’t much cared to ask. The less he thought about the wife, the better. Had Sal been forthcoming with the name though, it would definitely have been a deal breaker. Lindas were lethal.

“Well, she calls the shots about what goes on here,” Mickey said and wandered into his room, leaving Ian leaning against the door frame. “I don’t mind her rules. I like keeping my space private. Family only.”

 Mickey checked his watch. It was late, and typically, dropping off Ian at the hotel would be the last of his duties for the night. He wasn’t sure if Sal would want him to do anything after he showed up, so Mickey decided against changing completely. He shrugged off his trench coat and tossed it on the bed and then slipped out of his suit jacket.

Ian watched unblinking as Mickey unbuttoned his vest and threw it on the growing heap of clothes on the bed. He wondered if this was some sort of revenge for his own strip show. He gnawed his lower lip as Mickey undid his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. Was it normal to find this hot? Mickey wasn’t even getting naked—just stripping away a few layers—and Ian was about ready to sweat through his own shirt.

Mickey loosened his dark blue tie and unbuttoned the top buttons of his blue shirt. Sal’s insistence that his crew be as sharp as possible might make for a good look, but it was a pain in the ass half the time. Mickey like the classic mobster look, he wasn’t going to deny that, but sometimes he felt as if he was suffocating in all the suits, pomp and circumstance. He went through his coat pockets and retrieved his box of cigarettes. He lit one up, his body gradually relaxing since he was now home and had stripped down a bit. He looked up at Ian, who was gaping openly at him from his place in the door frame. Mickey grinned at him and made his way over.

“So, like my place?” Mickey asked as he leaned against the door frame, opposite Ian. It wasn’t a very wide door and they were left mere inches apart. Ian had to straighten up simply to accommodate Mickey’s insouciant lean against the door. Like hell he was about to move away though. The proximity was intoxicating.

“Yeah, it’s awesome,” Ian glanced once again towards the bed. “So it’s just you then? Doesn’t it get lonely?”

Mickey snorted, “I have four pieces of shit brothers and a harpy of a sister. It’s quiet now, but somebody’s usually here.”

“Yeah, but I kinda meant lonely as in…” Ian trailed off significantly and glanced again towards Mickey’s bed, “you said family only; so you don’t bring anyone here? Not even your girlfriend?”

When he looked back at Mickey, the man was regarding him silently over his cigarette, his eyes narrowed and dark. It set Ian’s pulse off racing. It was hard to process anything with Mickey so unusually close.

“Why are you worried about what goes on in my bedroom? That’s not your business,” Mickey said, and while there was heat behind it, it wasn’t censorious.

“I’m just thinking about your wellbeing is all,” Ian was all innocence and sugar, “I’m just being considerate.”

“Mmm,” Mickey groaned softly, making Ian’s skin prickle, “you did say you wanted to take care of me.”

Ian blinked and the memory floated up out of the fog with Mickey’s prompting; vague images of him pressing Mickey against his door and babbling at him drunkenly. Fuck, had he really said that?!

“You asshole! You said I didn’t do anything to be embarrassed about!”

“Oh no, I never said that, Gallagher,” Mickey smirked as he pulled on his cigarette, “You asked if you did anything you had to apologize for. You didn’t.”

“In your estimation,” Ian sighed and ran a hand over his face.

“Isn’t it my estimation that matters?” Mickey pointed out. “Besides, made me all curious and shit. Ian Gallagher thinking he can turn me out. Really think you could wreck me, Gallagher?”

Mickey didn’t know what he was doing winding Ian up like that—and by extension himself. He had crossed the line and left it miles behind. It was probably Ian’s nearness scrambling his circuits, but all he could think about was that damned kiss Ian owed him, and fuck if he didn’t feel like going for it.

Ian stared at Mickey for a moment, trying to read the moment and the man. His heart was hammering in his chest and the blood was singing through his veins. Mickey was fucking with him, no two ways about it, and it wasn’t even close to fair. He reached up and closed his fist around Mickey’s tie. Mickey didn’t move away. Instead, their eyes locked and they were both caught up in another surreal moment, only there wasn’t a drop of alcohol or a bit of controlled substance anywhere to be blamed.

“Mick,” Ian’s voice was low and rough and it made Mickey wet his lips in anticipation. Ian tightened his grip on Mickey’s tie and tugged himself even closer. “You can’t just say shit like that to me and not think that I won’t—”

“Mickey?! Ian?!”

They flew apart like startled birds as Sal stomped into the pool house. For a moment, they were so thrown by the older man’s arrival that neither of them knew what to do or how to react. They were both frozen, wide-eyed and panting as Sal bellowed for them a second time. Ian finally remembered himself and flew down the stairs before Sal could get suspicious. Mickey needed another minute, and stood still trying to get his nerves under control while he smoothed his tie.

“Hey, Sal!” Ian greeted the man breathlessly, “Mickey was giving me a tour.”

“Ah, there you are,” Sal’s face lit up and he kissed Ian on the cheek and patted it. “He gave you the tour, huh? Good, saves me the trouble. You like the old place?”

“Yeah, it’s great.”

“Designed and decorated the whole thing myself,” Sal started to tell Ian, but was distracted by Mickey coming downstairs to join them.

“Everything okay?” Mickey asked, looking between Sal and Ian.

“Fine, fine, I was just getting Ian’s opinion on the place here. I’ve been thinking that maybe we could do away with the hotel bullshit,” Sal grinned widely while the two young men froze.

Mickey was the first to sputter to life. “W-what? You want to…you want to start meeting here?”

“Why the fuck not?” Sal asked, clearly pleased with the idea. “I’m getting sick of the hotel, having to haul ass all the way out there, all the damn time. A man wants the creature comforts of home and this way,” Sal took Ian’s stunned face in between his hands, “you don’t have to run off, you can just hang out here for a while.”

“The fuck he can!” Mickey blurted out before he could stop himself. It was bad enough having to drop Ian off at the hotel every time, but like hell he could deal with them fucking around in the pool house. This was his home, his safe place, and Sal had never thought of taking any of his lovers here before. Mickey scrambled to cover when Sal’s face darkened. “Linda said you couldn’t take anyone on the property. If she found out…”

“Don’t tell her,” Sal said simply. “There’s about three dozen of you Milkovich fuckers coming in and out of this place like a goddamned clown car. Even if she spots Ian, she’ll just think he’s one of your cousins. It’s perfect.”

Mickey didn’t know how he hadn’t vomited all over Sal’s shoes yet. He was horrified on so many levels. “But where would you—I mean, where would there be room? There isn’t—”

Sal’s brow furrowed deeper at Mickey’s uncharacteristic fluster. “What’s wrong with the room across from yours?”

“That’s Mandy’s room!” Mickey thundered.

“Is Mandy fucking here?!” Sal was nearing the end of his patience, “now you get this through your head. That room isn’t Mandy’s; it’s mine. That room you sleep in isn’t fucking yours either. Everything and everyone in this motherfucker is mine. You got that?!”

The two men glowered at each other. Ian, who had been standing aside silently, slowly becoming awash in humiliation over the whole mortifying situation, read the warning signs. He tried to placate Sal and defuse the situation.

“Sal, it’s okay; there’s no need to—”

“You stay the fuck out of this!” Sal barked at him and Ian stepped back, rebuffed by Sal’s anger. Sal turned his attention back to Mickey and advanced on him, getting in his face. “You have any more opinions you need to share with me, huh? You got something else to fucking say?!”

Mickey could see Ian wringing his hands behind Sal, silently imploring him to back down. Mickey took a step back and swallowed his words and bile. It had been a lost and foolish battle from the get-go.

“No, Sal,” he shook his head, “I’m done.”

“That’s what I thought,” Sal snarled, and the tense situation was interrupted by Joey opening the front door.

“Hey, Sal, the gas man is here; says he needs to see you for a sec.”

Sal nodded. “I’ll be back in a second,” he said to Ian, “make yourself something to eat and get comfortable.” With that, he shot Mickey another glare before heading outside.

Ian eyed Mickey nervously. Mickey was glaring at the floor, his hands on his hips and his entire body vibrating with repressed anger, revulsion and a swirl of negative emotions.

“Look, Mick, it’ll be okay. Maybe I can talk him out of it…” he trailed off when Mickey looked up at him. The look Mickey gave him was absolutely sulphurous.

“Whatever, Red; do whatever the fuck you want.”

Ian’s mouth opened and shut wordlessly as Mickey stormed off outside, and soon he could hear the screech of the tires as Mickey raced away.

* * *

“So now I’ve been downgraded back to ‘Red’ again and he can’t even look at me right,” Ian resumed moaning once there was a lull in the customers. “I was enjoying being ‘Gallagher’ too. I just liked the way he said it, you know? And I’m pretty sure I was on the cusp of becoming ‘Ian.’”

Alex finished wiping down the conveyor belt at her station and pivoted on her stool to face her best friend. “Oh my god, ‘becoming Ian’ could be the name of the greatest Lifetime trans movie ever!” she quickly assumed her most theatrical voice, “for years Ina struggled; fighting with herself, the world and its demons. Little did she know she was on the path of… _becoming_ _Ian;_ premiering this week on Lifetime! God, they’d get so much wrong, and it would be campy and overwrought as fuck, but when they get to the part where he sees his penis for the first time, I know I’d be crying like a baby.”

Ian rolled his eyes, “will you please?”

“Right, right, sorry, you said you got name downgraded?”

“He’s so mad at me, Allie, but what was I supposed to do? When Sal decides to do something, that’s it. I don’t hear Mickey downgrading Sal and it was _his_ fucked up decision.”

“He’s not really mad at you; he’s mad at Sal. But he can’t afford to be demonstrably mad at Sal, so he’s taking it out on you instead.”

“Huh?”

Alex fluffed her shiny, blonde mane. “You know how it is when someone’s boss chews them out at work? That person can’t retaliate because there’s too much risk; might get fired or suspended or some crap. Instead, that person ends up going home and taking their anger out on their family, where there is low risk of severe consequences for their behaviour. It’s displacement 101; that’s what’s happening with you and Mickey.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Well, tough titties, it happens.”

Ian sighed heavily, “well how long is he going to be mad?”

“I’m training to be a psychologist, not to join the Psychic Friends’ Network. Do I look like Dionne Warwick to you? He’ll stop being mad when he stops being mad.”

Ian was inconsolable. He and Mickey had gone from being on the verge of…something, to Mickey feeling too grossed out and angry to even look at him. “Fucking Sal, he just ruined everything.”

“Yeah, the nerve of your boyfriend, complicating your budding relationship with another man!”

“Whose side are you on?!”

Alex raised a cool eyebrow at him. “You think that’s an easy call to make in this Italian soap opera you call a life? A tale of two mobsters? Sure Mickey’s young and could probably tie your dick in a knot with his tongue, but is that enough to overcome the fact that he probably kills people for a living? Why won’t you date Alan?!”

“Who the fuck is Alan?!”

“Cute half-Japanese dude who is always trying to get a seat next to you in English? He’s so hot for you and so totally normal. He drives a Ford Focus! He wants to own restaurants!”

“I bet Mickey tastes incredible,” Ian mumbled to himself and Alex rolled her eyes heavenward.

“Look, Mickey just has a lot to process. His boss is having gross sex with his boyfriend smack in the middle of his safe place. He’s feeling invaded and violated.”

“I know that, and the last thing I wanted was for Sal to pull this shit!”

Alex eyed him sceptically, “you can’t tell me that a part of you isn’t excited to be there though.”

“Of course I want to be there, but not like that, and certainly not with Sal!” Ian sighed, “the whole thing is so fucked up, I can’t even focus.”

“Are you still able to…” Alex made a jerking motion with her fist before bursting into jazz hands.

 Ian could not hide his amusement. “Well getting it up is no issue. I’m pretty used to fucking guys I’m not exactly hot for, but there’s almost no way I can finish now.”

“Seriously?”

“Are you kidding? Even under the best of circumstances, it’s a fifty-fifty chance if I come. These are not the best of circumstances. I’m a pro at faking it though and Sal usually passes out right after, so I get away with it.”

They both trailed off and pasted on plastic smiles as a few customers came up to cash their groceries. They picked up their conversation once the registers cleared again.

“God, what is even the point of fucking around with someone that can’t get you off?”

“Ugh forget that. My issue is now that Mickey’s mad at me, I feel so guilty jerking off to him. He’s giving me guilt boners.”

Alex burst out laughing. “How are guilt boners any different from regular ones?”

Ian grinned. “Apart from the pervading sense of shame? Your dick might make a sad trombone noise when you come. Sort of a ‘wah waah’ kind of thing,” he ended up laughing at Alex, who was in stitches, “you are loopy as fuck today, despite my pain. What’s up with you?”

Alex hiccupped and wiped her eyes as her laughter subsided. “I may or may not have popped a couple Xanax before coming to work today.”

“Why? Is everything okay?”

Nate walked up to the registers as if to provide visual aid. He had come to refill the candy displays and Alex tensed visibly.

“If it isn’t Laverne Cox and Shirley,” Nate  sneered.

“I don’t know what is more surprising: that you know the name of an actual trans person or that you can reference anything that pre-dates 2005,” Alex withered, “just how much time do you spend perfecting these little bon mots of yours, Nate?”

“I bet not nearly as much time as he spends thinking about what it’s like to suck cock,” Ian added thoughtfully as he regarded the purpling man. “You know, you could just ask. I mean the greasy neckbeard type isn’t my thing, but I could close my eyes and take one for the team if you need to know that badly.”

Nate was close to apoplectic. “You can fuck off, faggots.” He blanched and backpedalled quickly when Ian’s face went cold and the redhead slowly rose from his stool.

“Say it again,” Ian challenged. Nate swallowed audibly and looked around, but none of his usual crew was anywhere in sight. He shot them both dirty looks and turned tail quickly, not bothering to finish restocking the displays.

Alex shuddered, “I fucking hate them so much,” she murmured under her breath.

Ian gave his friend a comforting smile. “What do you want to bet that his dick makes nothing but sad trombone noises?”

Alex snorted and  dissolved into laughter again. How could anyone stay mad at this total dork?

* * *

Mickey had fallen asleep on the couch in the basement. He couldn’t stay upstairs when Ian and Sal were there together. He either hit the road or made his way to the basement, making sure to give them a wide berth. It didn’t stop him from agonizing over it—the thought of Ian and Sal together, doing god-knows-what just feet away made his gut twist and heart hurt. This whole thing was too fucked up to deal with.

He jerked awake, brought out of his nap by the explosions on the TV. He blinked and peered around in the darkness. Clearly he had been out for a while and he hoped that meant Sal and Ian were done defiling his sanctuary and had pissed off somewhere else. He grabbed his beer from the table, clicked off the TV and headed upstairs. The door was slightly ajar and when Mickey hit the top stair, he could hear soft grunts floating from the kitchen. Mickey’s stomach clenched—there was no way.

He pushed the door open slowly and silently and cautiously peeped out. It was only Ian working out on the pull-up bar in the bathroom doorway; on Mickey’s pull up bar no less. Mickey frowned; for all Ian’s alleged understanding of how Mickey was feeling about the arrangement, the redhead had certainly gotten comfortable with it pretty darn fast. Two weeks into this new deal, and Ian was around almost as much as the other Milkovich brothers. Mickey was left in the weird space of being annoyed when Ian was there, then missing him terribly when he wasn’t.

Ian’s eyes were closed as he counted his pull-ups and Mickey crept silently across the kitchen, his eyes glued to Ian’s bare torso. Ian worked out as if it was a religion and the effects were very well-defined indeed. Mickey figured the least Ian could do was keep a shirt on while he did all that and make Mickey’s life a little easier.

Mickey sipped his beer and kept staring as he crossed the kitchen, just completely mesmerized by Ian and his routine. Naturally, this led to him colliding with one of the kitchen island stools, like a moron, and almost going over it headfirst. The stool was sent clattering into its neighbour and Mickey barely managed to save his beer and stay upright. There went his plan to escape unnoticed.

“Hey, Mick.”

Mickey took a deep breath and steeled himself. He felt a pang of guilt over the hesitation in Ian’s voice. He wouldn’t deny it; he had been an ass to Ian the past two weeks while he struggled with being a conflicted mess. He turned to face an uncertain, slightly sweaty, shirtless Ian, as if his life wasn’t hard enough.

“What’s up?” Ian continued, and Mickey had to give it to him, no matter how cold the shoulder, Ian just kept on trying.

Mickey simply nodded at him and looked around. “Where’s everybody?”

Ian simply shrugged and moved a little closer. “Dunno? Out, I guess?”

Mickey sniffed and looked about apprehensively. He hated an empty house, hated it when it was too quiet. One of the worst feelings in the world for him as a child would be waking up to an empty house, fretting if anyone would ever come back. Now, usually at least one of his brothers was around at any given time, so an empty house still unsettled him. Granted, he wasn’t alone now. Ian was there, easily filling the house with his presence like smoke, but a smoke-filled house was a very dangerous thing.

“Looking for a buffer?” Ian asked suddenly, surprising Mickey, “you get scared when your big brothers aren’t around?” Ian smirked, edging even closer.

“Fuck off,” Mickey snarled, struck to the quick by Ian’s surprisingly insightful tease. He frowned when Ian only smiled and came closer, and Mickey found himself backed against the kitchen island. “You want to back off a little?” he groused. He could feel the heat radiating off Ian’s skin and it was making him hyper-aware of his own body and its ready response.

Ian appeared to think it over, “no.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“Why should I? You don’t really want me to.”

Mickey snorted derisively, “what the fuck do you know about what I want? What the fuck do you know about anything?”

Ian was practically on top of him, and the redhead leaned forward and trapped Mickey between his arms as he gripped the counter on either side of the startled man. “I know the way you look at me when you think no one’s watching,” Ian whispered softly against his ear, “I know you never stop thinking about me, even when you treat me like shit,” Ian let out a short laugh. “Probably _especially_ when you’re treating me like shit,” Ian’s body was now pressed flushed against his. “I know how you like it…”

Mickey’s heart was thumping so hard, there was no way Ian couldn’t feel it, pressed as closely to Mickey as he was right then. There was also no way Ian wasn’t feeling Mickey’s rock hard arousal either.

“Yeah?” Mickey asked hoarsely, completely gone, “How do I like it?”

Ian pulled back slowly until his face was hovering just a breath away from Mickey’s. Green eyes raked Mickey’s flushed face before locking with blue eyes and Ian’s smirk turned unholy. His hands were suddenly fisting into Mickey’s shirt and Mickey was flipped around roughly and shoved flat against the kitchen counter. The beer bottle went sailing to end up smashed on the floor and Ian’s hand slid quickly up the length of Mickey’s back to press his head down against the cool of the counter.

“What the fuck?!” Mickey’s voice was panicked, his breathing coming in short, fast puffs from the mix of arousal and anxiety, “here?! Someone might come in! Someone could—someone could see!”

Ian kept Mickey’s head pressed against the counter while his other hand slid down Mickey’s back to the waistband of his track pants. “Fuck ‘em,” Ian grunted and yanked Mickey’s pants and underwear down in one fluid movement.

“You can’t…” Mickey eyed the entryway into the kitchen, expecting Sal or Jaime, _somebody_ to stride in and catch them. His voice trailed off into a moan as Ian ran his fingers through the dark hair before abandoning it to trail both hands up the back of Mickey’s bare thighs to his buttocks.

“You want me to stop? I’ll stop,” Ian said as his hands kneaded Mickey’s ass, alternating between squeezing and spreading him.

Mickey moaned again when Ian spread his buttocks and pressed his thumbs into him slightly. “We can’t.”

“Say stop then, and I’ll stop,” Ian’s voice was soft and hypnotic and his hands felt as if they were everywhere. His long fingers brushed over Mickey’s balls and kept going to trail along the underside of Mickey’s erection.

“Please…” Mickey whispered brokenly.

“Please what?”

Mickey licked his parched lips and squeezed his eyes shut as Ian’s thumbs pressed and massaged his perineum. He was hurting for it—it was the only way he could describe it—wanting Ian so badly it hurt.

“Fucking do it,” Mickey gasped and Ian wasn’t about to ask again. Mickey thought he’d fall apart when he heard Ian unzip his jeans. He shuddered when Ian rubbed against him, sliding his cock up and down the crook of Mickey’s ass.

“You’re gonna need to relax,” Ian warned softly as he pulled back. Mickey let his body go limp as Ian spread him apart again. There was a moment of breathless anticipation before Ian thrust forward.

“Jesus, fuck me!” Mickey blurted out as he startled awake. He blinked rapidly, looking around in confusion as he tried to process where he was. It took him a second, but he finally remembered—he was in the basement parking lot of the medical plaza, waiting for Sal to finish getting his stupid teeth cleaned. He groaned and fell back against his seat. He groped his erection through the material of his pants and tried to think deflating thoughts. Sal should be out any minute and that’s the last thing he needed to explain. Thankfully, the thought of explaining his hard-on to Sal turned out to be a very effective dampener. By the time Sal climbed into the car, Mickey had managed to stifle the effects of the dream.

“Huh, what do you think?” Sal asked, baring his teeth at Mickey.

“Dazzling,” Mickey said dryly.

“They better be. That’s what I paid for,” Sal grumped before giving Mickey the once over, “what, you were sleeping?”

“I didn’t know you were gonna take forever and a day,” Mickey said defensively, “I had a late night.”

“Yeah, I bet you did,” Sal sniffed, “what’s her name?”

Mickey looked over at Sal askance, “excuse you?”

“Don’t act fucking coy,” Sal rolled his eyes, “you think I don’t see it? You’ve been moody as a motherfucker lately. One minute you’re all smiley and dreamy and on cloud nine, the next you’re under your own fucking raincloud. Only a woman fucks with you like that.”

“Whatever you say, Sal.”

“You fucking kids act like you invented this shit,” Sal grinned broadly at Mickey, “You haven’t brought Svetlana around to the house in ages, now you’re having late nights? You better be careful; that Russian strega will cut you to ribbons if she ever found out.”

“Why you so convinced I’m stepping out on Svetlana?” Mickey huffed.

“If you’re not, you fucking should be,” Sal said, “keep telling you that you can’t turn no fucking whore into a housewife. You think you love her? Fine, keep her as a goomar, but you find a girl you can fucking take somewhere. Somebody with a name, connections—she should bring you up, not down. You’re understanding me?”

“Yeah,” Mickey sighed. He’d heard this lecture a hundred times before. “Hey, Sal, can I ask you something?”

Sal puffed as he yanked on his seat belt, “I don’t know, can you?”

“Gallagher, you’re not tired of him yet?”

Sal looked at Mickey in surprise. “Tired of him? Have you seen that fucking specimen? I know it’s difficult for you to appreciate him the way I do, so let me see,” Sal sat back and rolled the thought around, “would you get tired of Brigitte Bardot?”

Mickey looked at Sal uncertainly, “I dunno, maybe? Who the fuck is that?”

Sal shook his head and muttered beneath his breath. _These_ _fucking zygotes._ “I swear to god, sometimes you and Ian make me feel like a hundred.”

“Well, it’s not like you’re far from it.”

Sal whipped off his fedora and started swatting Mickey with it, “you fucking smart ass.” He grumbled and put his hat back on, “short answer is no, I’m not tired of him. I’m as surprised about this as you are. Ian is different, I don’t know. Makes me feel good, feel young.”

Mickey’s smile faded and he looked away from Sal to stare ahead into the dark of the parking garage. “Oh.”

“Heh, if things were just a little different,” Sal mused.

“What, you’d wife him or something?”

“Wife?” Sal asked disdainfully, “it’s like you didn’t hear a fucking word I just said. What did I just say to you about Sveltana? You don’t marry whores.”

Mickey frowned at Sal, confused and angry. Since when was Ian a whore? “Then what was all that bullshit about feeling good and feeling young?”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” Sal asked, “look, Ian is like…” Sal searched for an appropriate example, “…Marilyn Munroe. She was a goddess. You just wanted to drape her in furs and jewels and all that fancy shit. Marilyn—there wasn’t a straight man alive who didn’t want to fuck her all night, every night. But she was a whore,” Sal informed Mickey, wagging a finger in his face, “love her all you want, but you don’t marry Marilyn; no, you fuck her, you keep her close, but you marry Jackie,” Sal said with a flourish, pleased with his analogy.

“Didn’t Marilyn Munroe get fucked up and die?” Mickey asked, staring at Sal in affronted disbelief.

“Never said she was stable. I’m trusting Ian is made of sterner stuff,” Sal said and looked in the rear-view mirror, “have they been there the whole goddamned time?”

Mickey glanced into the rear-view mirror, reminded of the federal agents that had been tailing them all afternoon and who were now patiently parked a couple rows back.

“Yeah.”

“Fuckers. Tony got the don’s approval to make some big moves,” Sal’s mouth twisted unpleasantly. He was taking no pains to hide his displeasure over the fact that his former right hand man had now surpassed him and was still rising rapidly up the ranks. “Stirring up the feds, got them crawling all over our asses again.” Sal neatened his tie and tugged on his sleeves, trying and failing to get perfectly neat. “Let’s go say hello.”

Mickey turned the engine over and within seconds had the Escalade pulled up alongside the agents’ black Lincoln. Sal was surprised to see a familiar face.

“Agent Fowler, now this is a surprise. Mickey, look who it is.”

“Salvatore, Mickey,” Agent Fowler nodded at Sal and dipped his head a little to see Mickey who was on the far side of the car, away from him. Mickey nodded stiffly.

“I thought we sent you into early retirement. How is it you look exactly the same every time I see you?” Sal asked enviously.

“Black don’t crack, they say,” Agent Fowler laughed easily. He had been more or less a constant presence in their lives over the past decade. He had to be in his mid-fifties and the black hair had turned salt-and-pepper, but that was the only change Mickey could see. Agent Fowler always seemed tall, cool and self-contained, even when he was barging in on them with search warrants.

“I guess we’ll be seeing you around then?” Sal asked, the challenge clear in his voice.

“Oh, you can count on it.”

* * *

Ian felt around his sheets and beneath his books for his vibrating phone. He stared in disbelief at the number on the screen—Mickey. Mickey never called, he never even texted. This was a modern day miracle. Ian quickly answered the call.

“Gallagher…”

Ian was struck by several things at once. Chief among them was that he was back to being Gallagher, and that Mickey sounded sexy as hell over the phone.

“Gallagher?”

“Oh! Um, yeah, I’m here.”

Mickey didn’t respond right away, and the silence stretched between them. Eventually, he said words that were absolutely music to Ian’s ears. “Wanna go for a ride?”

Ian was no pushover. Mickey had been a jerk to him for the past couple of weeks and Ian fully intended to let him sweat it out a little. Ten seconds seemed about fair.

“Come and get me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strega - Italian world for "witch"  
> Goomar - Normally the mistress or girlfriend of a married mobster.  
> "Jackie" - Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis


	10. Love Lockdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end notes for a short glossary.  
> Please tell me your thoughts! Feedback is wonderful.

Ian Gallagher was an idiot. He realized he was an idiot, because he had finals in a week and he was doing (or rather attempting to do) a large portion of his studying in the home of the world’s biggest distraction. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face before reading the same paragraph for the seventh time. If his entire Introduction to Business exam was based on those five lines, he would definitely ace it, no problem.

What was worse, Mickey wasn’t even there. He never knew where Mickey was at any given time, apart from their car rides and when Mickey was home. That didn’t lessen Mickey’s ability to distract the hell out of Ian though. The alarming thing for Ian was that he worried when Mickey was out of his sight. What was he doing when he wasn’t hanging around Ian, being torturously sexy? Was he in danger? Was he getting in trouble? The relief Ian felt when Mickey eventually popped up again was indescribable.

After the emotional ringer Mickey put him through on a daily basis, Ian figured the very least Mickey could do was make out with him a little. Instead, their relationship had slipped into a higher gear—a strange place filled with secret car rides, knowing smiles and outrageous flirting, but no pay off. Ian wondered sometimes if this whole thing was just a massive ego trip for Mickey; if he got off on the fact that there was someone who was crazy about him, while having no real intention of following through. Ian sighed at the thought; even if that was the case, it wasn’t going to change anything. Mickey Milkovich was in his skin like a fever.

“Hey!”

A heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder, making Ian jump and snapping him out of his reverie. Sal slid onto the stool across from him at the kitchen island.

“Why the hell are you so jumpy?” Sal asked and peeked at Ian’s text book. “Ah, that’s why. Hard at work or hardly working?”

Ian gave Sal a small smile and shrugged. “Finals next week; I’ve got a ton of reading to do.”

Sal nodded, but Ian wasn’t entirely sure he had heard him. He watched the mobster warily, because the man seemed excited and was digging into his jacket pockets.

“I got you something,” Sal beamed and produced a jewellery box. He slid it across to Ian and watched him expectantly.

Ian hesitated and glanced around apprehensively, half-expecting Mickey to materialize next to them. Ever since Mickey’s question about why he was with Sal and the unexpected fallout, Ian had been skittish about Sal’s gifts. The last thing he wanted was Mickey getting it into his head again that he was nothing but another gold-digger.

“Go ahead, open it, ” Sal nodded with barely contained excitement as Ian opened the box to reveal a massive Bulgari watch. “That case? Platinum, and that strap, real alligator! Ain’t it beautiful?”

It certainly was. Sal gave the craziest gifts and Ian had to admit he loved them. He was going to love pawning them even more when things ended with Sal. He couldn’t help but wonder, though, what Mickey was going to think when he saw it.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Sal asked, frowning.

“It’s great,” Ian turned the box and the watch glimmered as it caught the light. “I already have a watch though.”

Sal seemed genuinely surprised to hear that and he blinked at the simple watch on Ian’s wrist. “Well now you have a way better one. So what, you like it?”

Ian smiled and nodded, “I love it. Thank you, Sal.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Sal slid off his stool and came around to Ian’s side. He grabbed Ian by the nape of the neck, pulled the young man close and kissed him behind the ear. “I gonna go take care of a couple things upstairs first, but I’ll call you up in a bit, okay?”

Sal’s implication was clear, and Ian suppressed a sigh when he nodded. Well at least it would be quick and he’d be free to try and study for the rest of the day. Sal left the kitchen to head upstairs and Ian tried hunkering down again to get some studying done. He managed all of ten minutes before his concentration was shattered irreparably.

“Hey,” Mickey’s eyes lit up when he saw Ian upon striding into the kitchen. He grinned broadly as Ian gaped at him and came over to stand next to him. Whatever mission he was on could wait a couple minutes. “What’s up?”

Ian could only blink. Mickey was filthy. His blue overalls were greasy, his face was smudged and his hands were blackened with oil and dirt. Mickey was clearly in mechanic mode and Ian thought it was the greatest thing he’d seen since, well, since the last time he’d seen Mickey.

“Uh,” Ian said eloquently.

“What? Oh,” Mickey finally remembered his state and grinned sheepishly, “yeah, I came straight from work, didn’t get a chance to clean up.” He scratched his nose self-consciously, inadvertently spreading an oil smudge across it. It was adorable; Ian might have just fallen in love all over again.

“Work?”

“Yeah, at the garage? Classic car restoration and maintenance?” Mickey reminded him, “you think I can put mobster/pimp on my tax return forms?”

“You do taxes?!” Ian teased, “hot.”

Mickey snorted with amusement, and hid his bashful grin as he rubbed at his nose with his wrist. Mickey’s sudden bursts of pleased shyness never ceased to delight Ian, and the redhead set about teasing him further.

“I also dig the look,” he said and swept Mickey’s body appreciatively, “the dirty mechanic thing works for you.”

“Grime gets you going, Gallagher?” Mickey pushed back.

 Ian raised his eyebrow suggestively, “you’d be surprised at the things I can get into.”

Mickey chewed on his lip as they stared at each other. It was a dangerous game of chicken and Mickey was forced to blink first.

“Well as much as I’d like to hang around and titillate you further, I have to go talk to Sal,” Mickey said, “where is he?”

“In his study.”

Mickey nodded, but hesitated to leave. He then deliberately wiped his thumb across Ian’s knuckles, grinning wickedly as he did so. “Something to remember me by,” he said before he ran off, leaving Ian burning in his wake.

Ian sighed and smacked his head into his textbook. Mickey Milkovich was the worst. He still hadn’t recovered when a short time later, Jaime strolled into the kitchen.

Jaime nodded at him and he nodded back. Of all the Milkovich brothers, Jaime was by far the most reticent with him. Ian didn’t particularly care; he had far bigger Milkovich fish to fry. Jaime spoke as he headed past Ian towards the basement, “where’s Mick?”

“Upstairs with Sal.”

“Tell him I’m here when he comes down, okay?”

Ian nodded as he trailed a finger around the faint smudge on his knuckles. Something had to give soon. At this rate, he and Mickey were going to kill each other.

* * *

Mickey knocked once and burst into Sal’s study, and was greeted with a sight that nearly set his eyeballs on fire.

“Jesus, Sal!” Mickey made a hasty about-face as Sal sputtered in shock. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

“What am I doing? What are you doing, busting in here like that,” Sal zipped up his pants and slammed the laptop shut, though it did nothing to mute the sounds of moaning men emanating from it. Sal cursed under his breath and clumsily tried to shut it down. “I was warming up alright? Sometimes a man needs a little head start.”

It took Mickey a second to realize that Sal was referring to getting warmed up for Ian, and that sent him into another round of convulsions. Sal looked around for something to throw at him, but the office was bare but for Sal’s desk and chair, the couple of chairs facing them, and a few filing cabinets.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Mickey looked around cautiously and heaved a sigh of relief that Sal was more or less decent again. “The feds raided Carmine’s chop shop about an hour ago. They hit Johnny Macchione’s and Little Archie’s places too.”

Sal blanched and sat up in his chair. “What for?!”

Mickey looked at him askance, “what do you mean what for? For suspicion of racketeering, what do you think? We can’t be far down the list.”

“Why the fuck am I just hearing about this now?”

“Because I’m just telling you now,” Mickey answered, exasperated. “Not like I could call. They probably have us wired to hell and back. I’m guessing you’ll be getting a call from the big boys any minute now about a meeting.”

As if on cue, Sal’s cell phone rang and he winced at the sound. He answered it and responded only with terse responses to whoever was speaking to him on the other end of the line. Sal’s whole mood soured immediately. He had been summoned to a meeting where he would no doubt spend the next few hours being sneered at and condescended to like some dunce. All this, just because Tony was making his play to be underboss; it made Sal’s gut twist. He hung up the phone and frowned at Mickey.

“Meeting in an hour.”

“You want me to get one of the made boys to drive you?” Mickey offered. Neither he nor his brothers would make a welcome sight at the meeting.

“Nah, I’ll drive myself,” Sal muttered, “Fucking up my night. I need to freshen up to face those fuckers. You, get clean and stop trailing shit all over my house. Call me if anything else comes up.”

Mickey nodded and backed out of the study. He smiled as he headed to his room to wash up, his mind already racing ahead to when Sal would be gone and he and Ian could relax and hang out for a bit. He didn’t dare imagine going any further than that—his responsibilities and loyalty yanking him back from taking the next step like a leash around his neck. He knew Ian was open and he knew he should shut down whatever it was that was happening between them. Fuck if he could do it though. The second he saw Ian, everything just went haywire and all Mickey wanted to do was get as close as circumstances would let him. Fuck it; he’d deal with it next time. Right now all he wanted to do was to get clean and get next to Gallagher.

* * *

Ian was still on the same paragraph, but now he had moved into the living room. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, but the thought of Mickey had pulled him from the kitchen. He spent his time glancing back at the stairs with every sound. His heart skipped a beat when he heard footsteps coming down, but was bitterly disappointed when Sal emerged instead. Still, Sal seemed as if he had freshened up and had changed clothes as if to go out, so Ian grew cautiously optimistic. He gave Sal a small smile when he plopped down next to him on the couch.

“Listen, I have to go out for a bit, some unpleasantness has popped up. Please don’t be angry at me, I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Sal said as he rubbed Ian’s thigh. He frowned when he saw the smudge on Ian’s right hand and reached for it, “how the hell did you manage to get that on you here?”

Ian snatched his hand out of reach. “No! I mean, no, it’s fine,” Ian tittered nervously, “you’re all cleaned up, you don’t wanna get messy again.”

“Ah, you’re right,” Sal agreed before his eyes fell on Ian’s textbook once again, “you haven’t moved from the page the whole time I was upstairs?”

“Ah, I guess so,” he shrugged and trailed off lamely.

Sal raised an eyebrow and his voice grew deceptively soft, “heh, you sure this college shit is for you?”

Ian straightened up immediately, “why, what do you mean?”

Sal splayed his hands disarmingly, “I mean—I don’t know—school isn’t for everybody, you know? Not everyone’s got the head for it, and you, you already have that face. That’s an embarrassment of riches already. Can’t have everything…”

Ian frowned, his brow furrowing deeply. “Are you calling me dumb?!”

“Whoa, who said anything about anyone being dumb? Don’t go putting words in my mouth and then getting pissed about it. Maybe you should ask yourself why it’s taking you all freaking day to turn a goddamned page,” Sal said sharply before suddenly softening his tone again. “If it’s too much for you, you know you don’t need to do this shit. A boy like you should be taken care of anyway.” Sal stood and dropped a kiss on the top of Ian’s head and sauntered away, leaving a sullen and deflated Ian in his wake. Ian shut the book in defeat and disgust, and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

“Don’t buy that shit he’s selling,” Mickey said quietly after Sal had left. He dropped down next to a startled Ian, pressing as close to him as he dared. “Sal is ninety percent bullshit and ten percent hot gas. Don’t ever listen to him.”

Ian huffed softly and plucked at the knees of his jeans. He shuffled closer, erasing the already miniscule distance between them, and soaked in the comfort of Mickey’s body heat. He glanced over at Mickey, whose hair was still damp. Fresh from the shower Mickey might be Ian’s favourite itineration yet, where Ian could smell his scent best, even beneath the soap and shampoo.

“I don’t know sometimes,” Ian admitted to himself and to Mickey, “maybe I’m fooling myself with this. I’ve been barely staying afloat all semester and it feels like I’m drowning sometimes. Maybe Sal just sees it.”

Mickey sucked his teeth, “Gallagher, it’s your first semester and you’ve been dealing with a shitload of distractions. Give yourself a break; you’ll find your groove. And as for Sal,” Mickey scoffed, “you wanna hear a story?”

Ian nodded and Mickey wiggled down until his head was resting against the back of the couch and he propped up his foot on the low table.

“Okay so, when I was around fifteen, right, Sal buys a painting off this fence who swears it’s a Monet. It wasn’t a Monet, fake as shit, but Sal believes it. Not for nothing though, it was a beautiful painting, no less than the real thing would be. Sal loved that shit,” Mickey smiled at the memory, “he hung it in the living room in the main house to show off, and he’d spend at least ten minutes just staring at that shit every day for a while, just overwhelmed by it. That was his prized possession for a while,” Mickey said softly.

He shifted, beginning to frown as he recalled what happened next. “Then one day, I remember I was in the living room and he was passing the painting and he just uses his butterfly knife and nicks the frame. Just nicks it, easy as you please and keeps walking. I thought I’d imagined it, except the frame was cut so…” Mickey shrugged, “then about a week later, he does that same shit again and he just keeps doing it until he finally starts doing it to the painting itself. After a while, that shit was in tatters. Linda made me take it down and dump it.”

Mickey shook his head, “I couldn’t understand it. I mean he loved it; he loved that painting, so why would he rip it apart? Even weirder, sometimes I think he didn’t even realize he was doing it. It took me a minute to figure it out.”

“Why’d he do it?” Ian asked.

“Honestly?” Mickey rubbed the back of his neck and looked over at Ian, “I think he figured out it was too good for him. It was just too nice, and he’d shown it off because he couldn’t help it, so now someone was bound to come and take it from him because it’s obvious he shouldn’t have that shit. So he starts destroying it bit by bit, just to bring it down to his level. But then by doing that, he makes it not beautiful anymore and he loses interest. It’s who he is; it’s what he does, to everybody and everything,” Mickey sighed and looked at Ian sincerely, “don’t let him do that shit to you, Gallagher. Don’t let him devalue you.”

Ian’s heart constricted painfully in his chest. He looked down at his fingers in his lap before glancing at Mickey uncertainly. “You honestly think I’m too good for him?” he croaked.

“Got eyes, don’t I?” Mickey said and reached for the cigarettes in his pocket, now desperate for some kind of buffer in another unexpected, raw moment.

Ian tried to recall anyone besides Dr. Lester or Alex telling him he was too good for anything. He didn’t know why it affected him so much coming from Mickey, but the feeling was there, hot and rapidly expanding from his chest to the rest of him. It felt crazy, it _was_ crazy, and for a moment all he could think was that he’d never wanted anyone to hold him as badly as he wanted Mickey to right then. Instead, all he could do was press closer, until a belated realization hit home.

“Does he do that to you?” Ian asked quietly, “the whole cutting down thing?”

Mickey wet his thumb and grabbed Ian’s hand, and absentmindedly wiped away the smudge he’d placed there earlier. “He does it to everybody, Gallagher,” Mickey gave Ian a reassuring smile and reluctantly released his hand, “but I’m a pro; I know how to handle it.”

A million thoughts raced through Ian’s head. Fourteen years of that. Fourteen years of being ripped apart and pieced together; how could someone survive that? How could someone walk away from that whole? The image of Mickey being on the verge of panic as his mustang took him too far away, floated to the surface of Ian’s mind. He had thought Mickey was panicking about leaving his family behind, but now Ian wondered how much of that had really been about Sal. Mickey and Sal’s relationship sounded so messed up. Ian’s thoughts were interrupted by Mickey’s grumpy complaint.

“What the fuck is in your pocket?!”

The friction between them had worked the jewellery box to the top of Ian’s pocket and Mickey went for the offending object before Ian could deflect his attention. Mickey opened the box, revealing the expensive watch within it. Ian’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly, and he braced for Mickey turning cold again.

“You don’t like the watch?” Mickey asked him, “I hauled ass all over the Diamond District looking for this model.”

Ian blinked in surprise, “ _you_ bought this for me?”

“Well, my time, Sal’s dime.”

This certainly cast the gift in a different light. “Why this particular watch?”

“You don’t recognise it? It’s the same one I have. I figure we could be watch buddies.”

That was the dorkiest thing Ian had heard all day. He couldn’t fight back his smile. “I have a watch, you know.”  

Mickey rolled his eyes, “that’s not a watch, Gallagher, that is a child’s toy. This is a real watch. If you’re running late, it will teleport you, so make sure you’re dressed.”

“I’ll have you know that my big brother bought me this watch for school!”

Mickey lolled his head against the back of the couch and turned big, blue eyes on Ian. “Look, I’m not trying to hurt your feelings or anything, but your brother didn’t buy that watch; he got it out a gumball machine.”

Ian let out a bark of laughter before snickering as he stared down at his hands. “Why do you have to be such a dick to me, Mickey?”

“Mmm, who’s being a dick to you?” Mickey’s voice was a soft caress over Ian’s body and soul, “I’ve been nothing but sweet as sugar to you,” his voice dropped even lower and his hand twitched dangerously close to Ian’s thigh. The charged moment was interrupted by a cough and the sound of shuffling from the kitchen, and Mickey was startled out of the moment.

“Who’s here?” Mickey demanded, immediately on edge.

“Oh, um, Jaime; he came in a while ago.”

Mickey sagged with relief, but didn’t snuggle against Ian as he had been doing before. Instead, he got up and Ian almost mounted a protest.

“Get some studying done,” Mickey instructed and handed the watch to Ian. “I’m going to go see what my brother’s up to.”

* * *

Mickey headed into the kitchen to find Jaime putting the finishing touches on his sandwich. He grinned easily and stole his brother’s beer, which earned him a glare. At least that’s what Mickey thought it was about until Jaime corrected his misconception.

“What the fuck was that?” Jaime asked in a harsh whisper.

“What?”

“You two cuddling on couches now; why the fuck did you tell him you bought the watch?” Jaime had emerged from the basement only to stumble upon the last bit of Ian and Mickey’s conversation and he was not pleased.

“What difference does it make? He knows it’s Sal’s money. We were just talking.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Jaime scoffed. “You really want to start pulling this shit now? He’s Sal’s fucking problem. We are up to our neck in shit and we got it coming at us from all sides and now you wanna start thinking with your cock? Shut it down.”

Mickey shook his head, “there’s nothing to shut—”

“Don’t even try. Whatever the fuck is happening with you two, shut it down now,” Jaime took another beer from the fridge and picked up his sandwich. “This is not the time, Mickey; and he certainly isn’t the one.”

* * *

_“Shut it down.”_

Mickey rubbed his face anxiously as the phone rang. It took a while, and his heart tripped over itself when the line opened and Ian’s sleep-husked voice greeted him.

“Hello?”

Before Ian, Mickey didn’t spend any time wondering if he had a good imagination. What would that have mattered? What difference would it have made? Since Gallagher blew into his life though, he had to admit that his imagination had been running away with him in the worst way. All it took was Ian’s sleepy rasp to have him thinking about tousled red hair, a bare torso, and twisted sheets. Mickey licked his lips and ran his fingers through his hair, completely forgetting that he hadn’t responded yet.

“Mick?”

“You were sleeping.” It was a dumb observation; of course Ian was sleeping. He wasn’t the one laying awake at nights, burning and scared of the power and vividness of his dirty dreams. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Ian chuckled softly, “it’s okay, you can wake me up any time.”

Well shit.

_“Shut it down.”_

Mickey shifted against his pillows and listened to the sound of Ian’s calm, steady breathing. He wondered what it would be like to lie next to him, see him sleep; hear his calming breathing in person. He perversely wondered what it would take to wear Ian Gallagher out. He shifted again and squeezed his rapidly hardening erection through the soft material of his sheets.

_“Shut it down.”_

“Mick?”

Was he imagining it or was Ian’s voice even rougher and deeper now? It was doing crazy things to Mickey—dangerous things.

“Mick…”

There was no mistaking the sirens going off and Mickey rubbed his face again. This was impossible.

“It’s Iggy’s birthday tomorrow,” Mickey said at last, putting the brakes on just in time.

“Iggy?” Ian echoed, nonplussed.

“We’re having a party at Sandrini’s, he said to invite you. He really wants you there.”

“Iggy wants me there?” Ian asked, a small sigh in his voice.

“Said it wouldn’t feel like a party without you.”

Ian laughed, “no shit? Well I’ll be there then. I’d never want to disappoint a man on his birthday.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when mine rolls around.”

“Yeah,” Ian whispered, “you do that.” There was another pause and the electricity crackled between them across the line. Ian took a deep, audible breath, “Mickey, I…”

“Get some sleep, Gallagher. I’ll give you a heads up when I’m on my way to get you,” Mickey said and listened to another small defeated sigh.

“Goodnight, Mick.”

“Night, Gallagher.”

* * *

“911, what’s your emergency?” Alex asked when Ian flung his door open.

“The boy I liked invited me to a birthday party and he’s going to be here in a few hours and I have nothing to wear!” It came out as one, long, frantic word and Ian yanked her into his apartment.

“And just like that, I’m thirteen years old again. Can you check my braces for broccoli and pass my Clearasil?”

“This is no time for jokes, Alexis!”

Like hell it wasn’t. Alex bounced onto Ian’s bed, folded her legs beneath her and watched as Ian went Tasmanian devil on his closet.

“Help me!”

“I would, but I’m having far too much fun watching your little episode here,” Alex said and flopped down into Ian’s pillows. She took out her tablet to access her course notes while she kept an eye on Ian’s impending meltdown. “But what does one wear to a mobster soirée?  Do you do business casual, semi-formal? Maybe it’s strictly velour tracksuits. Oh, if only they covered these dilemmas in the pages of Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar. I don’t think even Cosmo would have any suggestions.” 

“Alex!”

Alex rolled her eyes and shuffled off the bed. She shooed him aside and examined his closet before hauling down a green dress shirt and a black blazer. “There, slap on some black pants and bob’s your uncle.”

Ian eyed the outfit critically, “are you sure?”

“You’re a redhead, green is a no brainer, and also don’t ask for my superior expertise if you’re going to second guess me.”

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good selection, but does it say ‘I’ll blow you in a back alley if you give me a chance?’” Ian asked and frowned at the blazer.

Alex rolled her eyes. “Yeah, pretty sure your mouth will be saying that loud, clear and deep. You should invest in a few articles of tear-away clothing. Nothing says you’re easier than a first grade math problem like the sound of pants unsnapping,” she said dryly, but then looked up to see her friend apparently contemplating it. “Ian, do not buy tear-away clothing. Why not get Lucite heels while you’re at it?”

* * *

“Well aren’t you casual,” Ian said with a smile as he took in Mickey’s black dress shirt, pants and red tie. There was no vest or jacket beneath the black trench coat and Ian wondered if this is what really passed for casual with Sal’s crews.

Mickey sniffed and rolled his eyes, “Sal sort of hijacked the proceedings a little bit and now there’s a whole bunch of the old boys showing up. Have to look the part.”

Ian frowned at that little bit of information. He had hoped, futilely, that Sal would have skipped the party and that it would have been mostly family and friends of the Milkoviches. Sal’s presence was an immediate dampener on things; flirting was going to be so much harder now.

“Iggy okay with that?”

“As long as Iggy gets liquor and some head, he’s golden,” Mickey said, “I’ll make sure he gets plenty of both.”

“Such a good brother,” Ian purred and leaned against the door, making Mickey snort and tug cutely at his coat sleeves.

“You look good,” Mickey said spontaneously as his eyes swept down Ian’s body. He then immediately looked away, embarrassed by his admission. “You ready?”

Ian’s smirk hitched higher and he nodded eagerly. He grabbed his coat and followed Mickey out.

* * *

They pulled up to Sandrini’s and Ian was surprised at the number of cars there. The place was probably packed. Sal’s interference had made the party far bigger than Ian had anticipated.

“When’s your first exam?” Mickey asked, surprising Ian.

“Um, next Tuesday.”

“So you’re probably going to need to conserve your brain cells. Remember what I said about keeping up with Sal?”

“Last time was a freak occurrence.”

Mickey seemed unconvinced, “sure it was. Am I going to have to keep an eye on you the whole night?”

Ian shrugged, “I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” he said innocently.

Mickey simply shook his head. “Get out of my car.”

* * *

It was packed. Iggy’s birthday party had transformed into a full on mobster mash, much to the annoyance of the Milkoviches. There wasn’t much to be done about that other than make the best of it. Mickey had Svetlana send in most of their girls with Tony, while Jaime brought in some new girls from the neighbouring town. With that, the party was in full swing.

Ian realized he was going to spend much of the night feeling frustrated. Sal had glommed onto him almost immediately after he stepped in the bar. Ian wound up on the opposite end of the bar watching Mickey multitask with keeping the higher-ups happy, monitoring his girls and making sure Iggy was plied with a steady supply of alcohol. The only thing he could do for amusement was to keep moving and get his thrill out of watching Mickey’s consternation as he searched for him. Mickey’s evident relief and easy smile when he finally spotted him were more than enough to keep Ian in a good mood despite the lack of contact.

Ian’s mood stayed fairly buoyant until he felt another pair of eyes boring into him. He followed the weird vibe to find Jaime sipping his drink and staring at him impassively and Ian quickly swallowed and looked away. The next time he dared to look over at Jaime again, the eldest Milkovich had corralled one of the new girls, and was whispering intently in her ear. Ian didn’t know why it made him uncomfortable until he saw the way she looked over at Mickey and nodded. Ian watched with growing horror as the young woman wended her way through the crowd, all sex and slink in a tiny lace dress, and she didn’t stop until she had her hands on Mickey’s tie.

She was gorgeous, admittedly, tall and willowy, with olive skin and a cool afro. She brazenly ran her hands up Mickey’s chest until she was rubbing the back of his neck, and bent forward to nip at his earlobe. The men around Mickey hooted lecherously and made their own plays for her.

“Never mind him, baby, he can’t do nothing for ya,” one of the older ones said, “come find out what a real man’s like.”

“Never been with a moulignon before,” another said, “maybe it’s about time.”

The chatter mixed taunting and encouragement, and the men watched Mickey and his new companion expectantly. She pulled back and tugged at his tie before turning away and striding purposefully towards one of the back rooms.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” one of the older heads clapped Mickey on the back, “you’re not going to get on that, because if you can’t handle it…”

Mickey sent a brief look Ian’s way before squaring his shoulders and following the young woman out of sight.

Ian was left reeling. His jaw slackened as he watched Mickey leave and his first instinct was to get up and drag him back. Shortly after Mickey disappeared into the back, Ian quickly got to his feet, determined to head outside and get some air before his head exploded. He didn’t get far before a heavy hand dropped around his shoulder and spun him in the opposite direction, piloting him towards the back rooms. It wasn’t Sal, much to Ian’s surprise; it was Jaime.

“Want to see something?” Jaime asked, a tinge of glee to his voice.

It didn’t take Ian long to figure out what he was about to see. He let Jaime pull him forward; morbid, masochistic curiosity winning out over self-preservation.  Jaime took him into an empty room, which confused Ian for a bit, until Jaime slid open a small, square panel in the wall, which offered a well-concealed look into the neighbouring room.

“Old mob dudes, man; fucking perverts the lot of them,” Jaime explained, “but you can’t say they’re not creative.”

With the panel open, Ian was able to hear them before he saw them. The girl was loud, showing a very vocal appreciation of Mickey’s efforts. Jaime stepped aside and let Ian step hesitantly before the panel. In the other room, Mickey had the young woman bent and spread over a pool table in the room. He was biting his lip and furrowing his brow in concentration as he gripped the woman’s slim hips and rocked forward.

“Ain’t it beautiful?” Jaime asked softly, watching Ian over the top of his cigarette. The sudden, strong resemblance to Mickey only made the whole thing so much worse. Ian spun away and fled from the room.

Jaime caught up with him outside, where Ian was taking deep gulps of frosty air as he tried to center himself. “So look, I know you and I haven’t established that warm, chummy rapport you managed to get out of my brothers, so let me start off our relationship with a bit of advice,” Jaime’s voice was soft as he leaned forward to get close to Ian’s face. “Stay in your fucking lane. You stick with Sal’s cock and stay away from my brother’s. I’m not going to say it twice. Mickey can’t afford your ass anyway.”

Jaime stepped back and took a cautious glance around before addressing Ian once more. “Pull yourself together, because Sal’s waiting for you in the main room. Gotta work off that shiny new watch, right?”

Jaime headed back inside leaving Ian running his hand over his face and through his hair in agitation. He took a couple more minutes before he headed back inside.

“That was amazing, baby,” the young woman exhaled, and straightened to tug down her dress and fuss with her hair.

Mickey snorted, “yeah, sure, spread the word.”

“Whatever you say, baby,” she turned to face him and frowned when she watched him unroll the condom. “you didn’t come? You want me to handle that for you?”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. We’re good?”

“Golden, baby,” she shrugged, a little confused about the orgasm role reversal, but she wasn’t about to complain. She tidied up and wasted no time heading back out to the party.

Mickey sighed and fought the urge to start throwing billiard balls around the room. Instead, he did just as the young woman had done: tidied up, put his game face on, and waded back into the fray.

He exited the room just as Ian was coming back in from outside. Their eyes met and Ian immediately bolted, taking off for the main room. Mickey stopped short of chasing him and decided to have words with his brother instead. He found Jaime in a corner, on the verge of falling asleep.

“Jaime, what the fuck?” he whispered harshly to his brother.

Jaime raised a tired eyebrow at him. “What the fuck about what, Mickey?”

“What’s with sending the girl over?”

“It didn’t look right.”

“What?!”

“It didn’t look right,” Jaime repeated, “all this hot, new trim walking around, and all you’re doing is schmoozing old bastards and eye-fucking the boss’s side piece. It didn’t look right, so I fixed it. You’re welcome.” Jaime got to his feet and sighed deeply. “I’m going to go see Iggy then I’m heading home. I’m fucking tired.” He trudged past his brother and left him with a parting shot, “I told you to shut that shit down.”

* * *

It was almost three in the morning and the party was finally winding down. Mickey found Ian alone and asleep on the couch in the main room. Sal had left him there to continue partying; Ian had had no such inclination. When Mickey shook him awake, he wasn’t exactly welcoming. He woke up, feeling all types of wretched and shrugged Mickey off roughly when the man continued to shake him. Mickey backed off, sensing the sourness in his mood.

“It’s late; I need to take you home,” Mickey said quietly. Ian didn’t respond. Instead he struggled to his feet and lurched for the door, shoving hard against Mickey as he did so. Mickey simply gathered up Ian’s jacket and followed him out.

It was a silent and icy ride away from the club. Mickey kept glancing nervously at Ian, who kept his sullen gaze firmly out the window. A few more minutes of it and Mickey couldn’t take it anymore.

“You want me to get you some coffee? Sober you up a little; probably make you feel better,” Mickey offered.

Ian didn’t respond, rather there was a stubborn lift of his chin and another drop in the temperature of the car. Mickey licked his lips and fidgeted uncomfortably, but didn’t try engaging Ian further. When he came to an all night McDonald’s, he entered the drive-through and purchased two large coffees. Mickey then parked in the deserted lot and gingerly placed Ian’s coffee in his cup holder.

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to,” Mickey’s voice was barely above a whisper. Then there was silence as they sat in the McDonald’s parking lot on a cold December night—one glaring out the window while the other sipped his coffee and waited. It didn’t take too long for Ian to snap.

“So can you only get it up for whores or…?”

“Watch it,” Mickey warned and Ian scoffed and looked back out the window. Mickey chewed his inner cheek, “what the fuck was I supposed to do, Ian? Why are you acting like I have a choice in this?”

“Don’t you?! What, you’re under some obligation to fuck every whore that comes onto you?!” Ian erupted.

“Yes, yes I am!” Mickey exploded right back. “What the fuck do you think this is?! Where do you think I am, huh? A hot girl comes to me in front of everybody, giving it to me for free—I’m not married, I’m not sick—what the fuck am I saying no to her for? You know how that would make me look?!”

“Like what, Mickey? What would you look like?!”

Mickey looked at Ian incredulously, “like a fag!”

Ian flinched but ploughed on anyway, “well isn’t that what the fuck you are?!” There was a stunned silence after Ian’s outburst , and after a moment, he quieted his voice. “Isn’t it?”

Mickey scratched at his forehead and looked around cautiously; the paranoia deeply instilled in him. “Look, I like women okay? I think they’re beautiful. Girl on girl porn might just be the greatest thing ever. I just don’t want to fuck them.”

“So, you _are_ gay?” Ian asked hesitantly, hope blooming wildly within him.

“Pretty much,” Mickey sighed, “but that doesn’t leave this fucking car, Gallagher.”

“Does Sal know?”

“Fuck no, the less shit Sal has on me, the better. Plus it’s safer if he’s not paranoid about me putting my hand in his cookie jar,” Mickey said, darting a significant look at Ian before focusing again on his coffee cup.

“Do your brothers know at least?” Ian frowned, the image of Jaime sending over that girl was seared into his brain.

“Yeah, they know; they’re fine with it,” Mickey nodded, “but they also know I need to keep my ass covered. Working girls know shit; they have all the secrets and sometimes you don’t know who they’re talking to. I’m just lucky my dick understands the situation and works when it needs to. For all the power Sal has, the second they find out for sure he’s into cock, they will gut him like a fish. I’m nobody, I’m not made, I’m not even Italian; what the fuck do you think they’d do to me? Sal’s my only fucking protection and if they find out what I really am, there’s fuck all he’d be able to do about it.”

Ian was silent and he stared bleakly ahead. Mickey’s life sounded so fraught and exhausting. Why did things have to be like that? Why does everything have to be so fucking hard?

“I like you,” Ian finally admitted in a low voice as he stared down at his hands. “I really like you…so much.”

There was a moment of quiet before Mickey responded, “I like you too.”

Ian’s head shot up and Mickey was smiling at him shyly.

“I do; I’m fucking into you and I’m trying as hard as I can not to be, but I can’t fucking help it, Gallagher,” Mickey said, “your mouth runs nonstop, your jokes are ridiculous and I’ve seen you in gold booty shorts and a ridiculous tiny tie, but I’m here for all of that. I like all of it.”

Ian’s heart was in this throat, and for a moment, he didn’t even trust his voice to speak. He soldiered through the shock though. “So then—”

“No,” Mickey stopped him, shaking his head, “No ‘so then.’ You know it’s not that simple. It’s not about us liking each other. It's fuck all about heat or chemistry or any such shit, Gallagher. You and me...it's just a thing that cannot happen. The sooner we both accept that, the better off we'll be. I really like you, Gallagher, honest to god; but I like breathing just a little bit more.”

Ian stared at Mickey helplessly, the brief hope that had bloomed in his chest now withering away. “So that’s it? Just…nothing?!”

Mickey chewed on his lower lip as he stared at Ian and slowly spun the cooling coffee cup in his hand. He didn’t respond to Ian’s despondent question; what could he say? They both sat silently for a while before Mickey finally started the car.

Ian felt exhausted and defeated. Between the chemicals in his system and the rollercoaster of emotions he’d had just gone through, all he wanted to do was crawl into his bed and never come out. Mickey Milkovich was gay, Mickey Milkovich liked him a lot and Mickey Milkovich had just completely shut him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moulignon - Italian slur for a black person.  
> Trim - slang for vagina  
> Working girl - prostitute


	11. Sour Grapes of Wrath

There was silence for the rest of the ride home; neither one being able to think of anything else to say. Mickey darted nervous and uncertain glances at his passenger the entire time. Ian had fallen silent and sullen again, and stared out the window for the duration of the trip, trying desperately to act as if Mickey Milkovich never existed. When the car parked across from the apartment building, Ian was outside and across the street before Mickey even had a chance to kill the engine.

Mickey made it to the elevator in time to see its doors slide closed in front of Ian, who leaned in the elevator, his eyes downcast. Mickey sighed heavily and hit the button. This was exactly what he had been afraid of; that the minute he was finally forced to say no, that everything would end. He understood the way things were—if you can’t give someone what they want, there really wasn’t much incentive for them to put up with you. He had hoped that somehow it would have been different with Ian; that they could keep something, anything, going once he had made his position clear. Obviously that wasn’t going to be the case. He should have expected it, but it still stung.

He knocked on Ian’s locked door and received no response, so he knocked again. He couldn’t even hear Ian moving around in there, and he imagined Ian sitting on the bed, glaring at the door with that defiant jut of his chin. He knocked again, despite knowing that he should leave, that he should let the chips fall where they may, let sleeping dogs lie, all that trite shit. He should let this thing between them fizzle along with the heavy risk their mutual attraction created. He should let Ian go. Instead, he knocked again.

Mickey jumped back a little, startled by Ian suddenly yanking the door open. The other man filled the doorway and glared at him impassively, and a tense silence stretched between them.

“What?” Ian said tersely, “I’m not in the mood for the safety check shit tonight.”

Mickey’s shoulders slumped a little under the weight of it all. “So that’s it then?” he asked quietly, searching Ian’s face, “we can’t bang so we’re just nothing now? There isn’t anything else here?”

Ian felt like screaming, because of course on what was one of the worst nights of his life, there was always a way for him to feel that much worse. Now he felt like a heel, as if he was a shallow, petulant brat that was throwing a tantrum because he hadn’t gotten what he wanted. But what was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to deal with any of this? They couldn’t be together—not in the way either of them wanted—and the realization and fatalism of it all had knocked the wind right out of him.

So what now? How was he supposed to stay close to Mickey, feeling the way he felt and knowing it was hopeless? He had never felt this way about anyone, and every instinct in his body said to chase this feeling, to pursue Mickey until he was completely his. Instead, it was the same old song. Nothing was in his control, not his love life, not his mental health, nothing. This was another prime example of him being unable to seize and shape his own destiny, and Ian didn’t think it had ever felt this devastating.

He turned away from Mickey and went to sit on the bed, leaving the door open. His hangover would be brutal in the morning. He was fucked up and heartbroken and he could find no way out of it. He buried his face in his hands and groaned, but then looked up blearily at the sound of Mickey stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

“I don’t want to be your friend,” Ian admitted, but hastily added to his admission when he saw Mickey’s face fall, “but, yeah, I don’t want to be nothing either.”

“Yeah, same,” Mickey fidgeted uncomfortably, “but we can make it work, right? Maybe we can dial things back for a bit, cool off and ease back into it?”

Ian wasn’t even close to being that optimistic. He had the sinking feeling that if he didn’t distance himself and make a clean break; he’d be suffering under Mickey’s thrall forever. The conflict in his head was intense. A small part of him wanted to accept the reality of the situation, while another part just wanted to cut a run—maybe the Peace Corps this time, since going back to the army was out. The overwhelming feeling though was to figure out this mess, convince Mickey that they had to at least try to make it work somehow. The sad apprehension on Mickey’s face managed to handily defeat all those impulses at once. He couldn’t stay away from Mickey, he couldn’t run away either, and he certainly couldn’t force Mickey’s hand when his fears were so valid. Ian sighed and got to his feet.

“Yeah okay, friends—I think we can manage that,” he tried to pump some lightness into his voice, “you probably suck in bed anyway.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up in mock affront, “excuse me?”

“It’s always better in your head, and then the reality is just disappointing,” Ian shrugged, “maybe it’s best to leave it in fantasy land for real.”

Mickey sniffed, “if that’s how you need to play it to sleep at night, then by all means. But just so you know, I would have been the best lay of your fucking life, bar none.”

It was a stupid thing to joke about and far too soon, but they were desperate to get back on some kind of easy footing. Instead, they found themselves immediately traversing some very dangerous ground. Ian moved closer and closer to Mickey as the latter leaned against the door, pulled by that ever present magnetism.

“Is that right?” Ian challenged, “it’s easy to say shit when you don’t have to back it up.”

“Trust me, I don’t brag, Ian, I state facts,” Mickey grinned at Ian suggestively, not a single alarm bell going off even though Ian was practically on top of him. This had been their new normal lately, always too close for sense, hearts always thundering away and just a slip away falling well over the line. Mickey didn’t realize the danger of the moment until Ian’s hands were sliding up his chest to grip his coat lapels; Ian’s new favourite thing to do.

“Why don’t we try it once then, so you can prove it to me? Quench the curiosity,” Ian whispered.

Mickey bit his bottom lip and tried to think straight. “Wouldn’t be just once, would it? Besides, you know the devil’s at your door, you’re going to open it so you can take a look?”

“Maybe.”

“Ian, we can’t, Sal would—”

“Forget Sal!” Ian shook Mickey a little, “this isn’t about him, it’s about us. He doesn’t own me!”

“No, he doesn’t,” Mickey agreed as he stared up at Ian earnestly, “but he owns me.”

Mickey gently disentangled himself from Ian’s grip and pushed away from the door so he could open it. “Get some sleep, Ian. I’ll see you.”

With that, Mickey was gone, and Ian was left with his forehead pressed against the door. Sure it would be fine; all they had to do was ease into it.

* * *

“You know what, fuck Mickey Milkovich,” Ian ranted to Alex as they sat at a table in a far corner of the cafeteria. “Just fuck him and his friendship and his stupid hair, I’m done!”

It had been two days since “the talk” and Ian had seen Mickey once. It had not gone well for Ian. There had been no alcohol or barbiturates in his system to take the edge and sting off, and when Mickey had nervously tried to make a lame joke, it had taken all of Ian’s willpower not to club the idiot to death with his shoe and then burst into tears. Fuck all of it. He had to respect Mickey’s precarious position and try his best not to exacerbate his plight, but like hell Ian was going to sign up for this kind of torture and pine away in silence.

He had exams in six days and he wasn’t even close to ready. Instead, he was distracted and heartbroken and he needed to sort his shit out. He had told Sal that he needed a few days alone to properly focus on his finals, mostly in a desperate effort to avoid anything Mickey-related. Sal had not been happy about it to say the least, but Sal Boerio’s feelings were literally the last thing in the world Ian gave a flying fuck about. Fuck Sal, Fuck Mickey, fuck everything—Ian hated the world and all its denizens.

“I need to get fucked,” Ian continued growling as he smashed and shredded the shells off Alex’s jar of raw peanuts, “this is what this is all about. All of this shit is nothing but sexual frustration. I haven’t had a decent lay in what, years? Nothing but mediocre sex from fucking geriatric viagroids,” he winced when Mickey’s stupid words found their way into his mouth. “I probably don’t even really like Mickey, or his stupid smile or his dumb blue eyes; I just need to properly blow my load and clear my head.”

“I’m going out tonight,” Ian declared emphatically, while Alex looked on with absolute marvel as her friend demolished her peanuts. She was fairly certain he was going to start shredding his textbook next. “That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go out to a club and find someone young and, like, insanely hot and I’m not going to stop fucking him until my balls are the size of prunes!”

“I volunteer as tribute!”

The joking voice gave Ian and Alex pause and they looked over at the person next to them. It was a young man of Japanese descent, who had been staring at Ian agog for the last twenty minutes, despite the ranting.

“Who the fuck are you?!” Ian snapped and winced when Alex kicked him hard in the ankle.

“Alan, oh my god, hi! When did you get here?” she asked chirpily, as if her best friend hadn’t been carrying on like a homicidal maniac a mere minute before.

“I-I was here the entire time,” Alan blinked at her nonplussed. “I was here when you guys sat down. You invited me to your study group?” he reminded her.

“Oh, huh,” Alex huffed quietly. Admittedly, Alan—sweet, cute and normal as he was in his plain white button down and Harry Potter glasses—might need a little help in the impact department. Already Alex could see Ian’s eyes glazing over as his brain cleared its cache of all Alan-related cookies. She eyed Alan critically; maybe if she gave him a Mohawk or a pompadour. Who doesn’t love a pompadour?

“Yeah,” Ian muttered to himself as he dismissed Alan’s earnest offer in order to obsess over _not_ obsessing over Mickey Milkovich. “That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

* * *

Some days Mickey hated his life and this was one of those days. This whole week had been one of those days, actually, but fuck this day in particular. It was close to midnight and he was in Boystown, meeting with one of Sal’s secondary suppliers. At least when he dealt with Dre, he could get some enjoyment out of it, but Dre was out of Sal’s desired poison and Mickey had to deal with the alternates. In any event, he had gotten the stuff and was heading home, only to get distracted by an impossible sight.

There was no way that was Ian in the line to _“the Cocktail”_ with some random jackass hanging over him. It certainly looked a hell of a lot like him though, but before Mickey and his lying eyes could come to an accord, the bouncer had let the redhead and his companion inside. Mickey parked at the next available spot and trotted back to the club, intent on sorting this out.

 _The Cocktail_ was packed and the energy was frenetic. It wasn’t a hard guess that most of the patrons were hopped up on something and practically bouncing off the walls. Mickey frowned as he squeezed his way through the crowd of overheated, vibrating bodies and craned his neck to spot who he hoped was merely Ian’s doppelganger. It didn’t take long to find him, despite the crush of people. Ian and his red hair stood out like a homing beacon. Ian was at the bar, laughing away at whatever dumb joke some stupid dude-bro in a pink polo shirt was spitting at him.

Mickey stayed behind Ian and ordered a drink, and watched the mating dance with a baleful eye. He couldn’t see Ian’s face, but the body language was open and dude-bro’s interest was blatant and undeniable. Mickey chugged his beer and kept on glaring. He wondered if this was a regular thing, Ian coming to the clubs looking for more attractive hook-ups, or if this was a result of “the talk.” Either way, it wasn’t his business, Mickey reminded himself. Ian could do whatever the fuck he wanted with whomever he wanted, as long as it wasn’t Mickey and Sal didn’t find out. The reminder left a bitter taste in his mouth and yet he still didn’t leave. He just stayed and glared until dude-bro reached out and ran his hand intimately up Ian’s arm to squeeze his bicep. That was Mickey’s cue to drain his bottle and take it with him when he went to confront the couple.

“What the fuck is this?” Mickey snarled after he came up right behind Ian. He got a small measure of satisfaction out of the way Ian’s body stiffened before the redhead pivoted to face him.

Ian knew it—he fucking knew it. He hadn’t seen Mickey, but he had known he was there. The frissions  of energy coursing through him had told him as much. Ian had been hoping that the goose bumps and the electricity had been from this new guy, but he had known they weren’t. The universe just liked to fuck with him this way, because of course the second time he pledged to solemnly swear off Mickey Milkovich, he and his leather jacket would roll right in to fuck up his resolve once again.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ian asked, a tinge of exasperation to his voice.

“What the fuck am I doing here? What the fuck are _you_ doing here?!” Mickey sputtered, “who the fuck is he?!”

Ian had already forgotten the young man behind him, but he could see the jealousy rearing its head in Mickey. Ian made the snap decision to indulge the feeling for a while. After all, it shouldn’t bother Mickey in the least; weren’t they just “friends?”

“This is Bobby,” Ian said as casually as he could, considering that he was screaming over the pounding music, “we’re going to hang out tonight.”

Bobby’s face lit up at the promise and Mickey looked at Ian incredulously. Taking Ian at his word, Bobby decided it was time to assert his authority.

“Yeah, so maybe you should fuck off, dude. He’s busy right now!”

Mickey’s eyes snapped to Bobby’s with undisguised hostility, “you need to mind your own fucking business, Robert. Me and him are having a conversation right now, but I can make it a me and you situation real quick.”

“He’s right though,” Ian said to Mickey, dragging Mickey’s attention back to him, “I am busy, so maybe you should just leave us to it.”

Mickey’s hostility dissolved and he licked his lips apprehensively. Like fuck he was leaving Ian here. He tried another tack, “if Sal finds out—”

“Don’t tell him,” Ian responded coolly, mirroring Sal’s own words. “He gets to fuck around, why can’t I? I just want to have some fun for once.”

“But you’re not going to have fun with him.”

Ian didn’t know if Mickey meant it as a threat, a plaintive plea or a mere statement of obvious fact. Somehow, Mickey had the ability to make it sound like all three at once. Ian knew he was right, of course. Even if Mickey hadn’t shown up, Ian wasn’t going to enjoy his time with anyone who wasn’t him. Now that Mickey was here, standing in front of him and searching his face, Ian didn’t even have the luxury of deluding himself for a little while longer.

“Look, Ian, let’s just get out of here,” Mickey stepped closer, but stopped short of touching Ian. “We can go back to your place; we can talk—”

“Dude, he’s not going anywhere with you. He said he was staying—”

“ _God-fucking-damn it!_ ” Mickey exploded and stepped around Ian. The lightning fast shift from gentle and beseeching to towering fury had startled Ian, and had left Bobby backpedalling quickly, “what did I just say to you? Didn’t I say that we were having a conversation and that you needed to back the fuck off?!”

Bobby had gone white when Mickey rounded on him, but their little drama was attracting attention and Ian seemed to be waiting to see how the scene would play out. Bobby swallowed; there was no way he was backing down and losing face now.

“You wanna take this outside?” he croaked, mustering some defiance. He was a little taller and had some weight on Mickey, so he really shouldn’t feel so intimidated.

“Outside? You need fresh air to get your ass kicked?” Mickey asked, and a split second later he rammed forward, slamming Bobby with a vicious head butt and dropping his opponent like a ton of bricks. Bobby folded up on the floor, clutching his face while blood gushed from his nose.

“Mickey, that’s enough,” Ian said with alarm and clutched for Mickey’s jacket to yank him off, but Mickey shoved him off. He realized belatedly that he had waited too long to shut it down when Mickey got to his knees to lay into his target.

Ian was about to bodily lift Mickey away when a large shadow swept past Ian and barrelled into Mickey, forcefully shoving him off the crumpled body. Maybe it was security or perhaps one of Bobby’s friends had entered the fray. The man had tackled Mickey against the bar and Ian saw red.

“Get the fuck off of him!” Ian roared and pulled the newcomer to his feet by his collar, before swinging him around and punching him hard in the face. The man was sent spinning, and wound up stumbling into another patron.

Said patron was the wrong one to stumble into. High as a kite and aggressive from whatever drugs were in his system, the affronted man let out a high pitched screech and smashed his drink over the brawler’s head. The domino effect was well underway and the scene rapidly descended into bedlam. As more and more people entered the fracas—most just for the hell of it—Mickey got to his feet and made his way back to the object of his ire, the man still curled on the floor in the fetal position. Mickey didn’t care who he had to fight to get to him.

It was chaos; an all out drug-fuelled brawl in a bar in Boystown, all the while the DJ kept playing. Ian lost sight of Mickey for a while and focused on finding him. Before long, there was the familiar flash of red and blue lighting up the windows from the outside and Ian immediately panicked.

“Oh shit, it’s the cops!”

Not that anyone seemed to care. He found Mickey squaring off with another random  and this time didn’t hesitate to haul him back by his jacket. Mickey almost swung on him in the moment, before realizing that it was Ian.

“Mickey, it’s the cops; come on,” Ian hissed and dragged Mickey through the fray towards the bathrooms. They stumbled inside, and the sudden quiet of their surroundings was shocking. Ian didn’t pause, but hustled to the last stall, climbed onto the toilet tank and shoved the window open. “Mickey, come on!”

Ian squeezed through the window and waited breathlessly for Mickey to wiggle out after him. The second Mickey’s feet hit the ground outside, they were confronted with a scouting policewoman.

“Hey you there, freeze!”

Mickey and Ian did just that…for a second. They then looked at the advancing cop, exchanged a look between the two of them and came to a silent agreement.

“No,” the cop warned, “don’t you do it. Don’t!”

But they were off like a shot, just bolting up the quiet side street while she jogged half-heartedly after them, yelling the whole time. She chased them for about half a block before giving up. What was she going to do, shoot them? She waved her hands in disgust and turned back to pick up slower, easier marks.    

They kept running until they couldn’t hear anything anymore, and wound up stopping in some dark, narrow, empty alleyway to catch their breath. Mickey was laughing out loud. His knuckles were bruised but his blood was up and he felt better than he had in days. Ian, however, didn’t seem as amused with the situation.

“What is wrong with you?!” he yelled at Mickey, and the latter’s smile faded.

“What, you pissed because I beat the shit out of your fairy, douchebag boyfriend?” Mickey snapped back at him.

“It was none of your business. That had fuck all to do with you!”

“The fuck it didn’t! You think I was going to just stand there and watch you fuck up with some loser?!”

Their voices kept climbing, and soon they were screaming in the middle of the alleyway. As it went on, they yelled over each other, each one determined to get the last and loudest word.

“Why were you even there?!” Ian threw his hands up, “since fucking when do you do gay clubs?”

“I can sense you fucking up from miles away, it’s like the Bat signal, or Spidey sense or whatever,” Mickey snarked, “what the fuck were you doing there? If Sal found out—”

“Fuck Sal!” Ian was at the end of his rope, “I just needed one fucking minute away from him; away from you!  You want to snitch on me, go the fuck ahead!”

“I ain’t no snitch!” Mickey said defensively, indignant at the mere thought of it.

“Then leave me alone! Are you that concerned about Sal’s feelings? How is it your fucking business what I do?”

 “How is it not my fucking business?” Mickey shot back, “you got some asshole putting his hands all over you, making me sick!”

“Why is that your fucking problem?!”

“Because nobody touches what’s mine!”

Mickey’s heated declaration shocked them both into silence, and Ian was left gaping at Mickey, wide-eyed. Mickey stammered badly as he tried to take back his damning words.

“That isn’t what—that wasn’t what I was—I meant—”

Whatever Mickey was trying to get out was cut clean off by Ian grabbing him and crushing their lips together. Mickey grunted with surprise and his hands automatically came to bunch into Ian’s jacket to pull him closer. Ian shoved Mickey against the wall and bit and pulled at Mickey’s lips, demanding access, and Mickey wasn’t about to deny him. The kiss was rough and hungry, and grew more demanding as Ian twisted his fingers into Mickey’s hair and plunged his tongue into his mouth.

Ian ground against Mickey instinctively, making them both moan. Mickey arched off the wall, pressing into Ian’s body, desperate to get closer. He fisted one hand into the red hair while the other clawed at the back of Ian’s jacket. Mickey jolted when Ian reached down between them and groped his crotch and Mickey shoved him off, leaving them both struggling for breath.

Ian didn’t speak, but stood panting in the middle of the alley while Mickey looked around, wild-eyed. Mickey ran his hand through his dishevelled hair and stared down the expanse of the empty alleyway before his eyes settled on Ian again. There was a moment and a pause, as they locked eyes, and this time it was Mickey who was on him, pushing him back until he connected with the opposite, and surrendering to the hunger and desperation.

Ian gripped Mickey’s hips as the kiss deepened and pulled their bodies flush together, yearning for more contact and friction. Mickey broke the kiss, eliciting a whine from Ian that turned into a moan when Mickey trailed hot kisses along his jaw line and down to his neck. He shuddered when Mickey nipped at his throat and felt his knees go weak when Mickey latched on to the sweet spot right below his ear. Ian’s body couldn’t decide whether to focus on the tantalizing pressure of Mickey’s increasingly aggressive biting and sucking, or on the thumb tenderly stroking his cheek. He was painfully hard and Mickey was no better, so Ian grabbed Mickey’s ass and jerked against him again, aching for some relief.

“Fucker,” Mickey growled softly against Ian’s throat. He shoved his cold hand under Ian’s shirt, pressed it against Ian’s heated flesh and made the redhead squirm even more.

Ian tilted his head to give Mickey more access. He was going to have the most ridiculous hickey at this rate and the thought turned him on more than anything, until one sober, sane thought fought its way to the surface.

“Mick, no; if Sal sees…”

It was like dumping a tub of cold water in top of Mickey. He immediately broke away from Ian and staggered back and shook his head firmly when Ian tried coming after him.

“No,” Mickey panted, “just no.” He dug his hands into his eyes, slumped over and groaned. Jesus, what a monumental fuck up. He straightened up and looked at Ian blearily. “You need to go home.”

“Mickey, let’s just—”

“Go home,” Mickey said sharply and turned around and took off, literally breaking into a run as he exited the alleyway.

Ian slumped against the wall and tried to pull himself together. This was either the best thing ever or the worst. Either way, he and Mickey were going to figure it out soon.

* * *

Mickey wasn’t answering his phone. It was the day after the kiss, and Ian called and texted repeatedly, but Mickey was staying stubbornly silent. Ian flirted with the idea of faking a medical emergency, knowing that Mickey would definitely show up then. He shelved the thought, however, since he was fairly certain that Mickey would show up, put him in the hospital for real and then go on his merry way. Still, the radio silence was unacceptable. He and Mickey had things to sort out, strategies to decide, and more making out to do. As the evening fell, Ian realized there was only one course of action—he carefully applied concealer to the bruise of his neck and then called Sal, claiming to miss him. Mickey was there within the hour.

Ian tried not to grin too triumphantly when he breezed out of his building. The smile faded though, when he went to open the passenger door and found it locked, and random crap piled up on the seat. Mickey jerked his thumb to the back, wordlessly telling Ian he was definitely not riding shotgun today.

“Are you kidding me?” Ian asked, exasperated, and tried the passenger door again. Mickey didn’t budge and Ian begrudgingly climbed into the backseat. “Are you even serious right now?” he groused to Mickey, “the backseat? You scared I’m going to ravish you if I sit up front? Or are you scared you might do it instead?”

Mickey said nothing, refusing to take the bait. He simply turned the engine over and pulled away from the curb.

“We have to talk,” Ian persisted and glared daggers at Mickey’s head when the man refused to answer. “You can’t just act like nothing happened.”

“Nothing did happen,” Mickey said at last.

“Oh, he speaks!”

Mickey snorted and avoided the temptation to look at Ian through the rear view mirror. “Give it a rest, Gallagher.”

Ian scooted forward. “Oh no, you’re not going to bust me back down to ‘Gallagher’ just because you lost your shit and kissed me last night!”

“Fuck off! I did not kiss you, you kissed—” Mickey clamped his mouth shut, cursing how easily he fell into Ian’s dumb trap.

“Can’t we just take a few minutes and discuss this like adults?”

Mickey’s answer to that was to flip on the stereo and flood the car with bone crunching death metal. When Ian tried to talk over it, Mickey just upped the volume and left Ian sputtering and indignant.

“Really?!” Ian yelled, barely audible over the pounding music. “You’re a fucking five year old!”

Between the punishing volume of the music and Mickey’s refusal to engage him, Ian was left getting angrier and more frustrated as they headed into the North side. Mickey was being ridiculous. All Ian wanted to do was have one conversation where they could maybe explore a non-fatalistic possibility for a relationship. Instead, Mickey was being an ass and he was going to suffer partial hearing loss for his efforts. He tried once again to engage Mickey and got nowhere. Aggravated, he did the most mature thing he could think of and kicked Mickey’s seat.

Mickey pursed his lips and gripped the wheel a little tighter. He wasn’t going to do this with Ian. He wasn’t going to do anything with Ian, and the brat would just have to deal. If Ian thought he was going to— _kick—_ Mickey gnawed his lip and counted to ten. If Ian thought he was going to— _kick, kick—_ Jesus, between the music and David Beckham back there, Mickey couldn’t even complete a thought.

“Knock it off!” Mickey yelled back, and Ian looked at him with mock confusion.

“What was that? I can’t hear you!”

Mickey figured he could get away with murdering Ian. If they knew half the shit he had to deal with, mobster or no, there wasn’t a jury in America who would convict him.

* * *

By the time they got to Sal, they were both furious and fuming. Each one thought the other one was the most unreasonable person in the universe. Sal wanted to see him, so Mickey followed Ian upstairs at a safe distance, trying and failing not to stare at his ass. When they got to Mandy’s room, Ian stood aside, forcing Mickey to knock for Sal. When Sal opened the door, Ian put on an Oscar-worthy performance.

“Hey,” Ian purred. It was only one little word, but it was so silky and seductive, it made Sal and Mickey’s spines straighten. He gave Sal a vulpine smile and entered the room, making sure to slide against the older man as he did so.

“You wanted to see me?” Mickey asked through gritted teeth and gave Ian a look that would have incinerated a lesser soul while Sal’s back was turned.

“Huh?” Sal muttered, completely distracted by Ian’s presence and mood, “yeah, no, never mind, fuck off,” Sal waved him off and swung the door shut on a purpling Mickey.

“So,” Sal ran a nervous hand over his ever thinning hair. Ian was giving off the most intense vibe, and Sal wasn’t sure of Ian’s stare meant fuck or kill, “couldn’t say away, huh?”

“Ever had your prostate massaged?” Ian asked suddenly, further discombobulating Sal. Ian had no intention of sleeping with him. He didn’t have the tolerance or the focus for it. He did, however, want to wind up Mickey a bit.

“Prostate massage?” Sal asked, bewildered. This abrupt, no nonsense Ian overwhelmed and overawed him even more than usual. “You mean like a prostate exam kind of thing?”

“Something like that.”

“I, um, don’t really recall that being a pleasant experience,” Sal said.

“That’s because your doctor wasn’t trying to get you off, and I’m not your doctor, am I?” Ian stood close to Sal and smirked down at him, increasing the mobster’s fluster. “Take your clothes off and get on all fours on the bed…face the door.”

Sal blinked at Ian’s brusque manner and momentarily forgot how to move. He watched as Ian went for the lube in the nightstand drawer and squirted out a liberal amount onto his fingers. Ian looked over at him and noted that Sal had yet to follow his instructions.

“Now, Sal,” Ian said irritably, and Sal snapped into action.

“Okay…” he did what he was told, and was soon on his knees in the bed while facing the door—beads of sweat dotting his forehead in anticipation and apprehension. He tensed slightly when he heard Ian moving behind him. “Is there anything I need to do or— _Jesus fucking god!_ ”

Mickey jumped a little at Sal’s muffled outburst coming at him through the door. He had no idea why he had been hovering out there, maybe half hoping that Ian would make some excuse and come back out to him. He scowled and stalked off, pissed and disgusted. Fuck Ian Gallagher, he was a passive aggressive little bitch and Sal could keep him.

* * *

It took three minutes before Sal was out like a light and snoring softly into his pillow. Ian washed his hands in the bathroom and came back out to sit in the chair by the window. He was going to wait a while before he got Mickey to take him home, lest Mickey think he was desperately chasing after his pigheaded ass. Outside, Mickey sat chain-smoking in the car, trying to pretend that he wasn’t anxiously watching the front door, waiting for Ian to emerge.  They were both thinking the same thing—that the one thing they wanted was utterly impossible and all they could feel was angry and cheated. Unfortunately, the only place they could think to direct that anger was at each other.

Ian didn’t hold out much longer, too eager to get back to Mickey even if it was to glare at him and get shut down some more. He gathered his things, headed out the bedroom door, and nearly collided right into the object of his aggravated affections, who had also snapped and decided to come get him. They glared at each other for a moment before Mickey broke the silence with a sneer.

“Have a good time getting teabagged?”

“Mmhmm,” Ian nodded with a smile, “in fact, wanna check my breath for me?”

Mickey simply glowered as Ian skipped past him and headed down to the car. Mickey’s coat and god knows what else were still piled on the front passenger seat. Ian didn’t care, who wanted to sit next to that jerk anyway? He climbed into the backseat and fantasized about throwing darts at the back of Mickey’s head. Ian put in his headphones in a pre-emptive move against Mickey’s stereo, and tried ignoring the other man as best he could. When he failed at that, he simply kicked Mickey’s seat again.

Mickey let Ian kick his seat a few more times before he retaliated. He slammed on his brakes abruptly at the next red light and sent Ian tumbling to the ground with a squawk.

“My bad,” Mickey sang out, “maybe you should buckle up back there. Safety first and all that.”

Ian settled back into his seat, brushed himself off, and deliberately turned the volume up on his iPod. When Mickey pulled up across the street from his building, Ian was out the car before Mickey had even parked properly. Mickey considered just leaving and letting them both stay mad. Maybe then the attraction would eventually transform into something easier to navigate. It would be better if they hated each other, so maybe he needed to take this tiff as the gift it was and let it go. That would be the smart thing to do, so of course, Mickey was out of the car and heading after Gallagher like the idiot he was. He didn’t even stop to put his coat on.

Ian smiled sweetly at the elderly woman in the elevator as he slipped inside. He quickly pressed his floor and then slammed the “doors closed” button.

“Oh, hold the elevator,” the woman patted his arm, “there’s another nice, young man coming.”

Of course she’d think he was nice. Mickey might have left his jacket and coat in the car, but the rest of the grey three piece suit must have had him looking like someone out of her Casablanca fantasies. Well she was free to have him, but like hell he was letting him on this elevator.

“Don’t be fooled by the suit,” Ian said dryly, and pressed the button harder.

The elevator doors were almost closed until a hand with a very expensive watch on it was jammed between then. The doors slid open and Mickey strode in. He smiled just as sweetly at the confused old woman, who now found herself standing between two young men who were radiating a whole lot of tension.

This was not sitting well with her. She was already convinced that her granddaughter was going to be murdered on a daily basis, given the state of the building and the town. This weirdly fraught standoff was doing nothing to allay fears, no matter how good looking the young men happened to be. When the doors opened on the fifth floor to reveal a couple waiting for the elevator to come back down, the grandmother gratefully hopped off to escape the tension.

“Weren’t you going to the seventh floor? This is the fifth,” Ian asked, and the woman only tittered nervously and waved her hand dismissively.

“You enjoy freaking out little old ladies?” Mickey teased when the doors closed again, and Ian simply turned up his music volume a little bit louder.

Ian didn’t take his headphones out while he waited Mickey to complete his farce of an inspection. He stood by his bed, ignoring the other man completely. When Mickey came to stand before him, he deliberately focused on his iPod. Mickey stared at Ian impassively for a moment before he lost it. He grabbed Ian’s iPod and headphones and sent them sailing towards the kitchen. Ian would never admit his gratitude, because his brain was about to start leaking out his ears.

“So I had a question,” Mickey sniffed and tugged at his sleeves as he turned back to face Ian.

“Well I’m all ears now,” Ian replied wryly.

“Old man balls, are they an acquired taste or does their flavour improve in proportion to how much money gets left on the nightstand?”

“Oh, so this is where we are now? You’re just going to straight up call me a whore to my face?”

“Just asking a simple question, Gallagher.”

Ian closed the small distance between them and got right into Mickey’s face. “Fuck you, you’re nothing but a fucking lackey, and if you think I’m going to make some Joe Pesci-wannabe look down on me, you’ve got another guess coming.”

“Watch yourself,” Mickey said quietly, “just because you’re flavour of the month right now, don’t think I won’t put you in your fucking place.”

Ian looked amused. “You really think you can? Come on, tough guy, take the shot!”

Mickey went for it without a lick of hesitation. By then, the blood had been thundering in his ears and fuck if all this turmoil and energy didn’t have to go somewhere. Why not expend it all on Ian’s perfect face. He swung, but Ian was ready and went low under Mickey’s arm. Ian got hold of him and judo flipped him over his shoulder, sending Mickey crashing onto the bed, almost making him bounce into the narrow crevice between the bed and the window.

As Mickey felt himself flying through the air, he almost rolled his eyes. Of fucking course Ian would know some fancy fighting shit. But Mickey knew how to play his advantages. He kept hold of Ian’s jacket and dragged Ian with him as he fell on the bed. He sprang up quickly and yanked the jacket over Ian’s head, effectively blinding him and trapping his arms for a moment. He grinned at the sounds of Ian’s furious, muffled swearing, but it got wiped away immediately when Ian rammed forward hard, head butting Mickey in the stomach and knocking the wind out of him. Mickey fell backwards, releasing Ian and giving him the second he needed to struggle out of the constricting jacket and toss it to the side.

Ian was on Mickey in a second, hell-bent on messing him up. He straddled Mickey and was about to let his fist fly, only for Mickey to reach up and slap one hand in Ian’s face and grab his hair with the other. Mickey yanked hard, pulling Ian’s head to the side and rolling with him so that their positions were reversed on the loudly protesting bed. Mickey reached out and grabbed the nearest pain-inducing thing he could get his hands on—a heavy, metal alarm clock—fully intending to brain Ian with it.

Ian couldn’t believe this. What kind of self-respecting man pulls hair? It was painful as fuck. _Dirty fighting piece of shit…_ He should have known Mickey wouldn’t fight fair. There wasn’t a single fair thing about him. Mickey still had the tightest grip on his hair, and Ian could feel Mickey’s weight settling on him, no doubt about to land the finishing blow. Ian squeezed his eyes shut and raised his hands defensively to fend off the blow, but it never came. He slowly opened his eyes and looked up to see Mickey glaring down at him, panting heavily with Carl’s obnoxious alarm clock held aloft in his hand. There was a moment of uncertain silence before Mickey slowly lowered his arm and tossed the clock carelessly back onto the nightstand.

“Okay,” Mickey said simply and left himself wide open.

Ian didn’t question it. He surged up and slammed Mickey hard onto his back, eliciting a sharp grunt from Mickey. Ian stripped off his sweater and T shirt, while Mickey went about undoing the two hundred and fifty buttons of his vest.

“For fuck’s sake, Mick,” Ian hissed and knocked Mickey’s hands away so he could rip the vest open. The sound of tearing fabric and buttons pinging highlighted the ongoing violence of the moment. Ian yanked open Mickey’s shirt and shoved up his tank top so he could nip at the flesh above Mickey’s ribs and run the rough pad of his thumb over Mickey’s nipple.

Mickey groaned and arched as the heat of Ian’s mouth burned over his torso. He twisted his hand into the red hair and pulled hard, dragging Ian’s face to his. Ian eagerly complied and the kiss was rough and demanding; a clash of teeth and tongues as they ground desperately against each other. The bed creaked as Ian shifted downwards again and blazed kisses down Mickey’s chest and over his abdomen. He paused briefly to unbuckle Mickey’s belt and undo his pants.

He locked eyes with Mickey as he yanked everything down just far enough to free Mickey’s erection. He kept staring up at Mickey, getting lost in the heat and depth of the darkening blue eyes even as he stroked him fast and hard. Mickey moaned and fell back against the pile of pillows. He bucked into Ian’s grasp, and Ian took that as his cue to dip his head and suck Mickey down.

Mickey swore and bucked again. Ian’s tongue swirled around the head of his cock and his mouth swallowed Mickey eagerly. He tangled both hands in Ian’s hair and urged him on, loving every excruciating second of it. He protested loudly when Ian pulled away from him with a wet _pop_ of his mouth.

“Shut up already, give me a second,” Ian said breathlessly and tried to make quick work of removing and tossing Mickey’s shoes and socks, and pulling off his pants and underwear completely. He took a moment to revel in the sight. Mickey Milkovich, completely bare from the waist down and deliciously rock hard. Mickey white shirt was wide open, his tie was askew and his tank was shoved up wantonly. It was so much better than in his dreams.

“Ian!” Mickey demanded and Ian grinned openly at the bossiness. He settled properly between Mickey’s legs and took him in his mouth once more. In his fantasies, he had imagined going slowly and savouring everything during their first time together, but they were both too amped up and desperate to slow for anything. He gripped Mickey’s thigh as he deep throated him, and used his free hand to fondle Mickey’s balls. He moved his hand lower, brushing his long fingers over Mickey’s entrance and watching carefully for his reaction. Mickey’s hips lifted and he pushed down against the pressure of Ian’s fingers, demanding more.

“You gonna get in me, or what?”

That was music to Ian’s ears. He rocked up and grabbed the bottle of lube from off the night table. He tossed it on the bed and moved to take off his jeans. While Ian unzipped, Mickey stripped off the rest of his clothes. He had barely managed to pull off his undershirt, before Ian was shoving him back against the pillows. Ian spread Mickey’s legs, shoved his knees up and unceremoniously shoved a lubricated finger into him. Mickey was electrified. Mickey reached up and held on the wrought iron bars with a white knuckled grip while Ian fingered him roughly.

“You like this?” Ian panted as he jacked Mickey off and pushed another finger in to work Mickey open, “you want it like this?”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Mickey whimpered and clenched around the probing fingers, “get on me already.”

Ian squirted the lube into his palm and slicked his cock with a few quick strokes. He felt as if he was going to die, he was already so close to coming. He grabbed a pillow and shoved it under Mickey’s ass before he spread him open. He pushed in slowly, dragging a ragged moan out of Mickey as he stretched and filled him. He gripped Mickey’s hips tightly and kept moving forward until he was completely buried inside him.

“Ah fuck,” Mickey whispered as they both went still, adjusting to the insane feeling of it all. It didn’t take long for Mickey to reach the end of his patience though. “Fucking move.”

Ian tried to take it slow. He rocked gently, overwhelmed by the sensation of Mickey hot and tight around him. He couldn’t believe how amazing it felt. Why the hell hadn’t they been doing this since the first day they met? He stroked Mickey’s shaking thighs tenderly, before tightening his grips on Mickey’s hips and rocking forward just a little faster, then a little faster, then even faster still. Soon he was lost, fucking Mickey hard and fast until the headboard loosened up and started slamming against the wall.

The battle had resumed its former fury, and Ian fell forward to brace his hands on either side of Mickey’s head. Mickey wrapped his legs around Ian and urged him on, shamelessly moaning Ian’s name over the cacophony of the squeaking bed springs, the banging headboard and Ian’s own shouts. Mickey let go of the bars of the headboard to pull Ian the rest of the way down. They bit and sucked at each other’s lips and Mickey reached down to grope Ian’s ass as the redhead’s hips snapped and bucked into him. Ian grunted with surprise when Mickey shoved him onto his back, rolling with him so Mickey was on top. Mickey gripped the headboard again with both hands for balance, and rocked forward.

“Oh god,” Ian moaned helplessly as Mickey rode him at a blistering pace. He let his hands roam Mickey’s body, skimming over his thighs, up his back and stroking his face. He gripped Mickey’s cock and pumped it, making it slick with Mickey’s pre-come. He was falling apart, and when Mickey’s hand squeezed his throat and his ass clenched around him, Ian lost it completely.

He came hard, arching into Mickey and digging half-moons into his hip, and ultimately dragging Mickey over the edge with him. Mickey came with his own strangled shout and spilled into Ian’s hand and over his chest. He then slid dramatically off to the side and collapsed next to Ian, and they both lay struggling to fight air into their lungs. They had reached a momentary ceasefire.

* * *

It was close to midnight and Ian hadn’t gotten around to drawing his heavy curtains. Moonlight filled the room, gently illuminating two stunned, somewhat appalled, red-faced men as they stared dazedly at the ceiling and stole sidelong glances at each other. It was a tossup as to who  would recover the power of speech and mobility first.

It was going to be Mickey, thanks to the post-coital call of nature. It had been ages since he’d had sex without protection and he was immediately reminded of the issues that came with it. He sighed, clenched all he could and shuffled off the bed. He could see Ian’s twitch of panic before the man visibly relaxed upon realizing that Mickey was heading to the bathroom and not making a midnight escape. Mickey simply ignored him and headed to get some relief and avoid making a mess.

Mickey locked the bathroom door, padded to the toilet, took a seat and set about contemplating the turn his life had taken. Was there ever a fuck up as big as this one? It came in layers, it was so bad. He had slept with Ian, he had had sex without protection, and he had most definitely dipped his dick into his boss’s cookie jar. The worst part of it was that Ian had apparently fucked him up so badly, Mickey was still too deeply in shock to panic or feel guilty over any of it…yet. He cleaned himself up as best as he could and headed back to Ian.

When he stepped out, Ian was sitting up in bed apparently waiting for him. Mickey stepped over the clothes strewn on the floor and stood awkwardly next to bed. He eyed Ian, who was staring back at him silently.

“So,” Mickey started hesitantly and scratched his shoulder, “I guess we need to talk about this then?”

“No,” Ian said and crawled over to him. He knelt in the bed in front of Mickey and tenderly stroked his face, “no, we don’t.”

Ian kissed him softly, cradling his head and circling his waist with his hands. Mickey didn’t have an ounce of resistance left him in. When Ian shifted back a little to pull him into bed, Mickey readily followed. It wasn’t long before they were locked together again. Mickey moaned into the crook of Ian’s neck with each slow, measured thrust of Ian’s body. When Ian came, he bit into Mickey’s bicep, and grinned at Mickey’s pleased moan.

“Always wanted to do that,” Ian admitted sheepishly. He stretched out next to Mickey and stroked his stomach, both of them now on the edge of sleep. “If this is another dream, I swear I’ll fucking kill someone.”

Mickey snorted his agreement and felt himself beginning to drift off. He was replete; he didn’t even protest when Ian cautiously snuggled up next to him and promptly fell asleep, breathing softly against Mickey’s face.  Mickey smiled and let sleep take him. Fuck it; he’d deal with it in the morning.


	12. Bisecting Triangles

It was just past dawn when Mickey blinked awake. He stared blearily at the ceiling and tried to get his bearings, finding himself in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar warmth spread across his body. It was Ian’s arm, flung casually across Mickey’s chest while Ian slept the sleep of the innocent. Mickey rubbed his hand over his face and slowly rolled away to sit on the edge of the bed. He looked back at the sound of Ian stirring and watched as Ian flipped onto his back and settled back into sleep.

They had lost their minds last night, and in more ways than one. Mickey was still struggling to wrap his mind around it. Sleeping with Ian had been the absolutely dumbest thing he could have done and obviously it could never happen again…obviously. Mickey kept staring at Ian’s sleeping form. Ian Gallagher had to be the most beautiful man alive, though that was still no excuse.

What the hell had happened to him last night? He had never been rocked like that in his life—wondered if he ever would be again. He replayed the night and his body automatically began responding to the memory, making his brain switch gears. He reached over and trailed a finger down the length of Ian’s torso and smiled as Ian shivered and twitched beneath his touch. He trailed the finger back up again and swiped his thumb across Ian’s nipple. His smile hitched higher as Ian shivered again and softly mumbled Mickey’s name in his sleep.

 _“Damn straight,”_ Mickey thought to himself before trying to shake the thought. Ian whispering his name in his sleep wasn’t supposed to be sexy, it was dangerous. Still, it was hard to get his priorities straight. Ian naked and asleep was so hot it was bordering on obscene and Mickey’s hand seemed to have a mind of its own.  He swept his hand over Ian’s chest and down his abdomen, until he was stroking Ian’s hardening cock and hearing Ian stutter his name as he surfaced from sleep.

It was a fuck up, Mickey told himself even as he shifted towards Ian and nipped at his hip. The way Mickey figured it, said fuck up would officially end when he walked out the door, so why not make the most of it? Jesus, something really was wrong with him; Ian had messed him up somehow. He hated kissing, avoided sucking dick as much as it was possible, so what was it about Ian’s lips that had Mickey hanging on to them as if they gave life? Why the fuck did he want to taste Ian so badly? He gave into the temptation and slowly popped the head of Ian’s cock into his mouth, almost experimentally.

Ian’s reaction was immediate, even while half-asleep. His body bowed, arching into Mickey’s mouth and his hand shot out to grab for the closest bit of Mickey he could. Emboldened by Ian’s response, Mickey plunged further down the length of Ian’s shaft, measuring him slowly to see how much he swallow down. He found his limit and slowly pulled back so he could plunge back down again with a little more speed and vigour. Ian was wide awake by then and shaking from the intense pleasure of it.

“Back up,” Mickey ordered hoarsely, and it took Ian a moment to make sense of the instruction. Mickey slapped at his thigh and Ian shuffled backwards against the pillows until he was sitting back against the headboard. With room at the end of the bed, Mickey settled between Ian’s legs and got down to work.

Ian hissed as Mickey sucked him down and he grabbed desperately for Mickey’s hair with both hands. He moaned Mickey’s name as the wet heat engulfed him and the blue eyes flicked up at him, assessing his reaction.

Mickey couldn’t believe how much this was turning him on. Ian was solid, huge and heavy in his mouth and he was fucking loving it. He loved the taste of him, the feel of Ian’s hands tugging insistently in his hair and the broken sound of his name on Ian’s lips. Mickey glanced up and was immediately entranced by Ian’s flushed face, his ragged breathing and the green eyes burning into his. Mickey looked up frequently, even as he sucked harder and faster and flicked his tongue along the rock hard length. He hummed contentedly, and Ian’s resultant shudder was powerful enough to rock him too. He could taste Ian’s pre-come and he pulled back to slowly and deliberately lap at it, all the while keeping his eyes locked with Ian’s.

“Fuck, you’re just so—fuck,” Ian said shakily.

Mickey simply hummed in reply and deep-throated Ian once again. A moment later, Ian was yanking at his hair in warning and coming hard into his mouth at the same time. Mickey sputtered and coughed, and sent Ian a heated glare while the man smiled apologetically. The moment Mickey regained control of himself, Ian was there, pulling him down and pressing him back into the pillows. Then Ian’s lips were on his and he welcomed them, and was shocked to find that he craved them just as much as he had the night before, if not more.

Before he could become alarmed by that, Ian’s tongue was plunging against his, and his hand was skimming down to grasp Mickey’s cock. He groaned into Ian’s mouth and thrust into his grasp as Ian stroked him fast and rough, and pushed him quickly to the edge. He twisted his fingers into the red hair and kissed back fiercely while he came. He fell back against the pillows, spent and breathless, while Ian’s hand slowed and stopped after the last of Mickey’s convulsions subsided.

Ian grabbed some tissues off the side table and quickly cleaned up. He then propped himself up on his elbow next to Mickey and beamed down at him while tenderly stroking his thigh. “So, hey…” he murmured softly and Mickey raised an eyebrow. Ian certainly had a gift for the understatement. Mickey stared up at him, still slowly coming down, and wondered if there was anything more dangerous than Ian Gallagher in all his softly smiling, smitten puppy glory. Mickey muttered a terse “fuck” under his breath and promptly rolled away from Ian and scooted off the bed.

“You’re leaving already?” Ian asked incredulously as he watched Mickey yank on his clothes, “the sun’s barely up.”

“Can’t be too early to leave, because I was never here.”

It didn’t take long for Ian to get Mickey’s implication and he flopped onto his back with a groan and an eye roll. “Seriously, Mick? Why do you have to be so goddamned predictable?” he sighed and rolled back onto his stomach so he could snuggle into Mickey’s pillow. “I need a couple more minutes sleep before I can deal with you.”

Mickey sniffed and buttoned up his shirt. When he peeked over at Ian, the idiot really seemed to have drifted back off to sleep. Mickey was incensed. Here he was getting ready to leave and Ian was actually sleeping. The least Ian could do was mount some sort of mild protest. Mickey grabbed his vest off the floor and realized that the only buttons remaining were the ones he’d managed to undo before Ian got a hold of it. Below them, one button dangled crazily on its thread but the rest were missing, shredded right off the badly ripped garment.

“I can’t believe you did this. Do you know how much this shit costs?” Mickey ranted and tossed the wadded up vest at Ian’s head.

“Sorry,” Ian said in a muffled voice that was decidedly unapologetic. He slowly pulled the vest down over his face to peer at Mickey, but kept his nose buried in it. “I’ll try to be more careful next time.”

“Isn’t going to be a next time,” Mickey grumbled and tried to adjust his tie. A moment later, Ian was standing before him, naked and overwhelming, and leaving Mickey with the dilemma of not knowing where to look.

“Are you seriously going to act as if you want to shut this down? You were sucking my dick not five minutes ago!”

“Yeah, well consider that the long kiss goodnight. Can you put some fucking clothes on please?!”

Ian rolled his eyes again and turned away quickly to find and yank on his boxer-briefs, and then he was back in Mickey’s face once again. “You and I both know this could never be a onetime thing.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up. “Why not? You were the one that said we should try it once just to see how it was. Now we know—we had an itch, we scratched it and now we’re done.”

It was Ian’s turn to raise a sceptical eyebrow and in response, he simply grabbed Mickey by the tie and hauled him flush against him. The kiss was immediately burning and desperate, and by the time Ian let him come up for air, Mickey’s head was completely fuzzy.

“Fuck,” Mickey mumbled under his breath.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Ian squinted one eye shut and appeared to think it over, “feels more than an itch to me.”

“Kiss me again and I’ll cut your fucking—” Mickey was promptly cut off by Ian’s mouth covering his, because Ian, being Ian, registered nothing but the first three words of Mickey’s attempted threat. Mickey’s hands skimmed down the length of Ian’s back to toy with the waistband of his underwear and grope his ass. Ian pulled back before Mickey could go further, and his grin was unholy.

“Definitely more than an itch,” Ian murmured and moved to kiss Mickey again, but the latter pulled back.

“For fuck’s sake, Ian, quit!”

Ian stopped his pursuit but didn’t back off. “Mickey, come on, let’s be real about this,” he said and reached down to grip Mickey’s hips. “I mean, I really like you.”

Mickey eyes widened dramatically. “Oh well that’s just peachy keen, isn’t it? Are you going to let me wear your letterman jacket and your pin to the prom?”

“Jesus…” Ian sighed.

“No wait, but do you just like me, or do you like me, like me? Because that distinction will make a world of difference when Sal is shoving a luger up my ass!”

“Look, it’s not like I’m saying we should fuck in front of him. We can make this work, Mickey. We’ll be careful,” he said softly and leaned forward to nuzzle Mickey’s ear. “We can be smart about this,” he whispered.

“This whole thing is the opposite of smart,” Mickey groused quietly, but his hand was already working its way into Ian’s hair.

“We can make this work,” Ian repeated firmly and pulled back slightly so his face hovered right before Mickey’s. “You said it yourself, it could never be just once.”

Mickey chewed his lower lip in consternation and gazed in Ian’s eyes. There really wasn’t anything more dangerous. He cradled Ian’s cheek and rubbed his thumb over Ian’s stubble.

“I don’t want you getting hurt in this, Ian,” he finally admitted, knowing he was defeated even as he mounted his final weak protest.

Ian understood Mickey’s worry. The last thing in the world he wanted was Mickey getting hurt either. “This isn’t about the fucking, Mick; you know it isn’t. I feel it’s worth taking a risk, but we’ll be careful.”

Mickey nodded slowly and trailed his hand from Ian’s face, down his torso to play with the waistband of Ian’s underwear again. He gave Ian a teasing, lopsided smile, “it’s a little bit about the fucking though.”

Ian grinned back. “I don’t have work for a few hours. Do you really need to head out so early?” Ian asked innocently, even as he was removing Mickey’s tie and unbuttoning his shirt.

“You know you can’t interfere with my business though,” Mickey warned and all that earned him was a huff of laughter as Ian piloted him towards the bed.

“Such a mobster-like thing to say,” Ian said.

Mickey sniffed, but let Ian guide him towards the bed. “We, um, didn’t use anything last night…” he began awkwardly before trailing off and eyeing Ian.

“I’m clean, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Ian quickly assured him, “got a full work up before school and everything. Plus, I always use them with…you know,” Ian demurred, scared to say Sal’s name out loud lest it spook Mickey.

“Always?” Mickey asked with a lift of his brow.

“Always,” Ian said firmly. Sal had a wild streak and Ian was taking no chances.

“I always use them too,” Mickey murmured in his own attempt at reassurance. He scratched his nose self-consciously; he had never had to have this type of conversation before.

“Are you okay with it like this?” Ian asked, “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want—”

“It’s fine,” Mickey said quickly, before adding sheepishly, “it’s just that, um, things get messy like this.”

“That’s okay; I don’t mind being messy; some of the best things always are,” Ian said simply and shoved Mickey under the covers so he could dive in after him.

* * *

It was almost midday by the time Mickey made it to the elevator. He looked the worse for wear, now without his vest, with his shirt rumpled and his tie slightly askew. His hair was a little crazy, despite his best efforts. His lips were bruised, his left eye was a little swollen and there were angry red marks climbing up his neck above his collar. He had never felt better in his life. He lit up a cigarette and leaned against the back of the elevator in contentment.

The doors opened on the seventh floor to reveal the little old lady from the night before and her granddaughter. The young woman glided into the space, but her grandmother stood gaping at Mickey. She probably thought he looked like he’d been through a war. She hustled into the elevator, standing squarely between Mickey and her oblivious granddaughter. The woman couldn’t help peering at him more closely, apparently trying to make sense of his condition.

“You should see the other guy,” Mickey said blithely and pulled on his cigarette.

The old woman stared straight ahead for the rest of the ride.

* * *

Alex was staring at Ian wide-eyed as he tucked into the tuna sandwiches she had made for their lunch break. Ian had been floating on air since he came in to work and his good mood showed no signs of abating. The only word she could think of to describe him was beatific, which was even more remarkable since the last time she saw him, he seemed hell-bent on laying waste to Tokyo, Godzilla style.

“This is so freaking good,” he sighed blissfully after taking a huge bite of his sandwich. “It tastes amazing, Alex; what did you put in it?”

“Um, well, you know…mayo?” Alex answered, bewildered.

“God, it’s such a nice day,” Ian glanced out the window of the employee break room appreciatively.

No, it wasn’t. It was overcast and cold as balls and Alex was growing deeply suspicious. “So, uh, did you go through with your plan?”

“What plan?”

“You know, the ‘fuck Mickey Milkovich’ plan?” she blinked when he choked on his sandwich, “so did you find a warm body at the club to help you exorcise your demons?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Did it work? It seems like it worked,” Alex tapped a finger on the tabletop and eyed her friend while Ian took another large bite of his food and made a series of noncommittal nonsense noises. “What, no details?”

“Not much to tell; just the standard hook-up.”

“A few days ago you were almost breathing fire, and then you went out, got some dick, and now you’re practically Mary Poppins. Do you understand the possible implications of this as it concerns mental health and mood management? There could be a dick out there with the cure for dysphoria in it. I demand details…for science!”

“Well, I mean, what do you want to know?” Ian asked nervously.

Alex narrowed her eyes and leaned forward, and suddenly it was on. “What was his name?”

Ian shook his head. “Kept it anonymous.”

“Was he young?”

“Yes.”

“How young?”

“My age?”

“So you didn’t exchange names but you swapped ages?”

“I’m ball parking.”

“I bet you ball parked. How tall?”

“I-I don’t know, average?”

“Hair colour?”

“Black.”

“Eye colour?”

“Blue.”

“Tats?”

“Yes.”

“You fucked Mickey, didn’t you?”

“Yes, no, wait!”

“You absolute fuck-twat,” Alex shook her head while Ian sputtered.

“No, I got confused. I mean he might have looked like Mickey,” Ian tried.

Unsurprisingly, Alex was unconvinced. “I can’t believe you. I thought you said you were moving on. Isn’t your life complicated enough right now? Are you trying to get yourself killed?!”

“Okay, but you don’t understand. I was at the club, fully intending to go through with the plan, but then Mickey shows up out of nowhere—like kismet! Then there was the fight and then the police came, then we made out, but then he took off. Then I tried to discuss it, but he was being a dick and we ended up getting into it and it was amazing!”

Alex stared at her bright-eyed, babbling friend and began accepting the fact that Ian was going to give her stress ulcers and that Team Alan might just be doomed.

* * *

Mickey’s day was wrecked. He couldn’t go anywhere, he couldn’t do anything except pace his room, worked up and over stimulated as he replayed his time with Ian on a loop. This was how addictions started, doing nothing but surviving until you could get your next hit. He could still feel Ian—his hands, his mouth, his cock—and the memory of it all was making him crazy. The stress of it wasn’t helping either. Now that he was away from Ian and was able to think a bit more clearly, he wondered what the hell he was thinking, giving in like that. Ian’s “smart and careful” plan was laughable at best. The only smart and careful thing they could do was to stay the hell away from each other. The consequences of betraying Sal weighed heavily on him as he kept pacing in front of his bed.

His phone buzzed on his bed and broke into his reverie. He immediately went to check it, hoping it was some effective distraction to save him from his thoughts. _“I can still taste you,”_ the text message read, and it was crazy how quickly Mickey’s flesh warmed at the words. He was going to strangle Ian the next time he saw him, either before or after he’d done a few other things. _“Fuck off,”_ he texted back tersely, but Ian’s words had had the desired effect and then some. His worries about betrayal and caution were overwhelmed by the thoughts of Ian’s mouth on his cock and Ian’s hands stroking his thighs, and Mickey was beginning to truly appreciate how fucked up this was.

He dropped the phone on the bed and headed into his bathroom, He went for the small pile of innocuous magazines next to the toilet and flipped through his _Guns & Ammo _to retrieve the picture he’d hidden inside it. He wandered back out to his room, smiling softly at Ian’s image, and went to lock his room door securely. He then headed to his closet, worked his way to the far corner and opened the duffel bag he had tucked away there. He rifled though it until he found what he was looking for and pulled it out. He clicked the button and jumped a little at the enthusiastic buzzing as his toy shook to life.

“I really fucking hate you,” he muttered to Ian’s picture as he placed it on the pillow and knelt on the bed before it. He could have sworn Ian’s smirk hitched just a little bit higher.

* * *

Mickey sat in the car for a few minutes simply looking up at Ian’s window. It was a little past nightfall and he was there on Sal’s orders. He figured it would be wisest to just text Ian to come down, instead of heading up there, but he already knew he wasn’t going to do that. He didn’t know why it was suddenly so hard to do the smart thing, but he was out the car and across the street without thinking about it further. It was when Ian opened the door that he finally understood why. He was a hopeless addict and his drug of choice already had his hooks deep into him, mind, body and soul. Ian smiled and Mickey’s pulse was off and running.

“Sal wants to see ya.”

Ian didn’t register that in the least. Instead he smiled harder at Mickey and reached up to tug at the collar of his dress shirt. It was navy blue beneath the black pinstripe suit, and an unusual departure from Mickey’s typical black or white shirts.

“Well this is a little different,” Ian said and pulled a little at the knot of Mickey’s black tie. “You trying to look cute for me?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey snorted, but there was the dip of his head and the quick glance away, and Ian knew he was right.

“Good to know I put some colour into your life,” Ian waggled his eyebrows and stepped away from Mickey. He pulled off his sweaty tank top and tossed it aside, then sat on the bed to yank off his sneakers and socks. “Had a late run; I just got back in,” he explained.

Mickey wasn’t complaining. He came into the apartment and stood before Ian, careful to stay out of arm’s reach. “You’re not going to say anything, right?”

Ian let out a sigh of longsuffering, “I’m so sure, Mickey. Yeah, the first thing I intended to do was to run up to Sal and say ‘hey, guess which one of your henchmen I had sex with last night? Here’s a hint: the answer rhymes with hickey!’”

“I’m not a fucking ‘henchman,’” Mickey said testily, “I’m not working for Dr. Doom in his mountain fortress.”

Ian got to his feet and grinned as he did his favourite thing of reaching for Mickey’s coat lapels. “You’re cute when you get all pissy about your job title,” Ian pulled him close, “it gets me kind of hot.”

If Mickey hadn’t known before that he had lost any and all control of the situation, this would have been all the confirmation he needed. Ian had stuck his dick in him and promptly turned into a monster.  Mickey gnawed on his lower lip as his fingers itched to reach out and slide all over Ian’s bare chest.

“Have you been thinking about it?” Ian asked softly and slipped his hands beneath Mickey’s trench coat to slide it off. “I haven’t been able to think about anything else all day.”

“We don’t have time for this, Ian,” Mickey pointed out, but didn’t stop Ian from unbuttoning his jacket.

“I think we do, a little bit. I mean you always take the long way, you don’t usually drive the speed limit; I think that buys us some time,” Ian suggested, “I can be quick,” he said cajolingly.

Mickey smirked at the thought and his eyes focused on Ian’s mouth as he spoke. In the end, it was Mickey who rocked up and locked lips with Ian. When he pulled back, Mickey issued one bit of warning.

“Easy on the suit.”

Ian nodded and made a great show of slowly unbuttoning Mickey’s vest. “I’ll try my best.”

Mickey snorted, shrugged out of the vest and reached up to pull Ian down towards him while the latter worked on getting rid of the rest of his clothes.

“You really do wear too much shit,” Ian murmured against Mickey’s lips. He tugged off Mickey’s tie and managed to get his shirt off without ripping anything—a small miracle in itself—and shoved Mickey backwards so he was left sitting on the bed.

Mickey glanced up as Ian loomed over him, and his eyes swept down the length of Ian’s body to the growing bulge in his sweatpants. Mickey hooked his fingers in Ian’s pants and underwear and yanked them down. He glanced up at Ian again as he swallowed him down and shivered at the way Ian’s eyes darkened and burned into him. He sucked hungrily, making up the shortfall of his mouth with one hand while he reached around and squeezed Ian’s buttock with the other.

“You’re so good,” Ian groaned and massaged the back of Mickey’s neck, keening softly as Mickey took him deeper still. “You’re fucking amazing.”

Mickey hummed contentedly at the praise and released Ian’s ass to squeeze his own erection chafing against the material of his pants. Ian tightened his hand in Mickey’s hair, stopping the man from following him when he pulled away.

“Shove over. Strip,” Ian ordered brusquely and Mickey’s cock throbbed in anticipation.

Mickey kicked off his shoes and shuffled backwards across the bed. He peeled off his tank top as Ian settled between his legs and pulled off his pants, underwear and socks. A second later, Ian was crashing down on top of him, rocking down and grinding hard against Mickey, making them both gasp and moan. Mickey locked his legs around Ian’s thighs and wrapped his arms around the broad shoulders as Ian rutted against him. He threw his head back, panting harshly as Ian’s nails bit into the flesh of hip and his long fingers pulled his hair.

The bed protested as the frottage continued. Ian pulled away and sat up, making the bed groan and creak as he shifted between Mickey’s legs. He sucked on his fingers, coating them liberally, and slowly slipped them inside Mickey. He was surprised by the give of Mickey’s body, but the realization struck him quickly.

“Had some fun without me?” he asked as he scissored his fingers deep inside him. Mickey arched and moaned, and pressed down against the ministration. “Were you thinking about me? About us?” Ian asked lowly as his fingers found Mickey’s prostate.

“Fuck, yes!”Mickey admitted hoarsely, before pushing Ian away a bit so he could flip onto his stomach. “Get on me already!”

Ian grabbed the lube off the nightstand and quickly prepped them both. He straddled the back of Mickey’s thighs, leaned forward and slowly eased into him.

“You want it like this?” Ian whispered as he settled against Mickey’s back.

“Yeah,” Mickey breathed and reached back to stroke and squeeze Ian’s thigh, encouraging him to move. This was the feeling he had been craving since the moment he had left Ian’s apartment that morning. He felt as if he had been chasing the dragon all day and now, finally, he was being reunited with the real thing. He twisted his fingers in the covers of the bed and whimpered into them softly as Ian began thrusting. 

Ian braced his hands on either side of Mickey’s head and rocked forward. Mickey grabbed Ian’s wrist and held on as Ian moved faster—plunging in to the hilt and rocking back to fill Mickey again. Ian settled against Mickey’s back as he picked up speed. He buried his face in Mickey’s neck and licked at his throat.

“You smell so fucking good,” Ian growled against Mickey’s skin, and grunted when Mickey reached back to grab his hair and pull him closer.

Mickey felt as if he was falling apart as Ian fucked him. Ian’s weight driving him into the bed relieved the ache in his cock as he was pounded against the sheets. His hiss melted into a throaty laugh when Ian yanked his head back hard by the hair and bit into the muscles of his shoulder.

“So fucking good,” Ian gasped before they both came hard, shuddering against each other as they rode the wave of their orgasm. They collapsed, spent with Ian sagging atop Mickey’s back, and promptly passed out.

* * *

Mickey stirred at the soft buzzing sound floating at him from somewhere in the room. His head and arm lolled off the side of Ian’s bed, and the redhead in question was still sprawled on top of him like a pornographic starfish. Ian was heavy, but Mickey didn’t mind the weight—found that he liked it a lot actually—and he automatically clenched around the soft dick still inside him. Ian moaned softly but went on sleeping. Mickey rubbed at his face and idly wondered how he was going to escape this cocoon, and even if he wanted to until he heard the soft buzzing again. He realized it was his phone and then the rest of the realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

“Fuck!” he yelled and started elbowing Ian off his back. “Get the fuck off me!”

Ian groaned and rolled off and Mickey scrambled off the bed to rifle through his scattered clothes. He found his phone and answered it breathlessly.

“Where the fuck are you?” Sal barked.

Fuck! How long had they been out. He quickly glanced at his phone and saw that they had been sleeping for more than half an hour.

“Engine trouble,” Mickey said as he shook an unresponsive Ian’s leg. “I’m fixing it.”

“Engine trouble? That’s a brand new fucking car!”

“So what, new shit can’t have problems?” Mickey shot back before delivering a swift kick to Ian’s backside. When Ian grumpily looked back at him, Mickey snapped his fingers and jerked his head towards the bathroom, wordlessly ordering him to the shower. Ian seemed to finally remember reality and rolled off the bed to head to the bathroom.

“Well how long is it going to take?” Sal asked petulantly.

“I’ll fix it when I fix it, alright? Just cross your legs and hold it; I’ll get a dick in you as soon as I can,” Mickey hung up on a still grumbling Sal and groaned to the heavens. He headed into the bathroom where Ian was already under the spray of the shower.

“Not even day one of this shit and we’re already fucking up,” he grumbled as he sat on the toilet.

“Growing pains; we’ll get better at it,” Ian chirped and peeked around the curtain at Mickey. “Wanna join me, save some time?”

If looks could kill, Ian’s head would have been severed cleanly from his body. He finished his shower in record time and without further comment. He strode out of the shower wet and dripping, and smirked at Mickey’s gobsmacked expression.

Mickey could only sigh as he jumped into the shower. He had truly created a monster.

* * *

They finally made it out the door and Ian couldn’t help smiling at the back of Mickey’s head as they went for the elevator. He knew what Mickey smelt like, he had tasted the nape of Mickey’s neck, and he had been inside him — was going to be inside him again. He was going to be inside Mickey Milkovich so much, he was going to have to declare Mickey as a secondary address.

“What the fuck are you looking at?!” Mickey snapped at him and Ian quickly looked away.

“Nothing!”

 “Quit looking at me like that,” Mickey ordered as they got on the elevator.

“How am I looking at you? I’m not looking at you—I’m not!”

“Are you going to be cool about this? Tell me if you’re not going to be cool about this, Ian, because I will just kill you myself.”

The elevator doors opened just as Mickey made this threat and revealed a very harassed and nervous old lady.

“I’ll just catch the other one,” she said tiredly and sent them on their way.

* * *

Mickey sped early on to make up time, but his speed slackened soon after entering the North side. He grew quieter with each passing mile, leaving Ian sending nervous glances his way and trying fruitlessly to engage him. By the time they hit Sal’s neighbourhood, Mickey was going well below the speed limit. He eventually wound up pulling over a few blocks from their destination and killed the engine. They sat in a tense silence for a moment before Ian spoke hesitantly.

“We’re already pretty late, Mick.”

“You want to do this?” Mickey said suddenly, catching Ian off guard. “You really want to go to him?”

Ian toyed with the zipper of his jacket, wary of Mickey’s growing tension. “No, but there’s not a lot of choice here, right?”

“Why did you get with him in the first place, Ian? if you’re not into him…”

There was that question again, revealing Mickey’s doubts and anxieties and leaving Ian twisting to find an acceptable answer.

“I—I was into Sal, okay? For a while, but that wore off pretty quickly. Even now, I still sort of—I mean, I don’t hate him. I just don’t want to be with him like that,” he said and drew a frustrated hand over his face when Mickey looked at him, sceptical and confused. “Look, I have…issues, okay? Daddy issues, though I fucking hate calling them that because not everything is about fucking Frank. I just have this thing for older guys, like maybe it’s the stability or the confidence or that they know how to listen, I don’t know.”

“I’m not an old man though.”

Ian smiled and tilted his head. “You are, kind of, if we’re being honest here. You’re like a grumpy old man in a hot dude’s body. You’re the best of both worlds. You’re sort of perfect,” he grinned when Mickey snorted and glanced away, embarrassed. Ian  then added, “and I’ll have you know, I did want to break up with Sal before you even showed up. Iggy made it sound like Sal would be eating my liver with Fava beans if I tried it.”

Mickey frowned and flexed his fingers around the steering wheel. “Yeah, it’s better if you let him end it,” Mickey said quietly, “he usually gets bored and antsy by now. I don’t even know where his head is any more,” Mickey said mostly to himself before admitting, “I don’t want him touching you, anywhere… anyhow.”

Ian reached across and stroked Mickey’s thigh. “I doesn’t mean anything, Mick. It’s just…going through the motions. I mean, we don’t even have sex that often, and it’s barely even sex then. He has like zero stamin—”

“Ian!” Mickey yelled, “I really don’t need to hear this.”

“Sorry, it’s just—” Ian paused and squeezed Mickey’s thigh, “don’t worry about it. I have it under control and I can handle Sal. Please don’t freak out about it. It doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“So you wouldn’t have any problem leaving him then? I mean, if he ends it, or if we figure out something before then?”

Ian undid his seatbelt and stretched across to grab Mickey’s chin and kiss him deeply. When he pulled back, Mickey’s eyes were soft. “Don’t freak out about it. I don’t feel anything for Sal, not like that. We should go. He’s probably climbing the walls by now.”

* * *

“It’s about fucking time,” Sal grumbled as Ian walked into the room, “I was starting to think the two of you eloped or some shit.” He was laying in bed, watching TV to pass the time while he waited. He eyed Mickey who was still hovering at the door. “What?”

“Nothing…fixed the car okay.”

Sal grunted in acknowledgement, his eyes never leaving Ian as the young man shed some layers. “Fucking Cadillac, not even a year old and acting up. This is why the goddamned Orientals are running everything now,” he looked over at Mickey again. “What else?”

“Nothing…”

“Then close the door and fuck off. What do you want, a tip?”

Ian glanced at Mickey anxiously, but after a moment’s hesitation, Mickey finally nodded and closed the door. Ian was left standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed, distracted and worried about Mickey’s mindset and suddenly unsure about just how to deal with the reality of Sal. The man lay in bed, solid, looming and unappealing, and the guilt was already beginning to eat away at Ian and he hadn’t even touched Sal yet.

“What’s the matter? Everything okay?” Sal asked.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just…exams and everything you know? It’s got me a little stressed out,” Ian said.

Sal swung his legs off the bed, stood up and smiled suggestively at Ian. “Well maybe I can help you—”

He was cut off by a loud, rapid knock at the door, and Sal grunted in annoyance and stomped over to answer it. He swung open the door to reveal Mickey once again and there was silence as the young man stared blankly at his boss, apparently at a loss as to what to say.

“What?!” Sal snapped irritably.

“Um…remember some of the boys are doing a run down to New Mexico in the morning,” Mickey blurted out, “I just wanted to know if you had any instructions or…” Mickey trailed off lamely and sent a furtive look over Sal’s shoulder at Ian, who stared back anxiously at him.

“Since fucking when do you ask me anything anymore?” He huffed and then grabbed Mickey by the scruff and squeezed playfully, “you know what needs to be done, so go do it and don’t fucking come back here unless something’s on fire.”

He shut the door on Mickey and shook his head. “Is there a full moon out tonight? Everybody’s acting squirrelly as shit.” He then turned back to Ian and gave Ian a toothsome smile. “So now, where were we?”

* * *

It was after midnight and Ian lay in bed, staring at the ceiling; Sal’s arm heavy across his chest. It had been a while since he’s heard Mickey. It might have been his imagination, but he could have sworn he had heard Mickey shuffling around outside the door at times. It had been distracting to say the least. Imagination or not, however, there hadn’t been a sound but for Sal’s snoring for what felt like hours. Was Mickey even still around? Had he gotten disgusted and left? Was he alone? Ian shifted uncomfortably, chafing under Sal’s touch and his own uncomfortable thoughts, and he eventually surrendered to temptation and texted Mickey.

 _“Where are you?”_ he fired off the message and waited, though he didn’t really expect Mickey to respond. To his surprise, his phone buzzed a moment later.

_“Basement.”_

Ian’s body sagged with relief and he lay still for a while longer, his brain spinning wildly. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he slowly shifted Sal’s hand away from him and slipped off the bed. Sal didn’t stir, and Ian was out the room and down the stairs in a flash.

He found Mickey playing pool by himself, clad only in a tank top and boxers, just the way Ian was. Mickey looked up at him briefly before taking a deep swig of beer and focusing on the pool table.

“I thought maybe you left,” Ian said nervously and scratched at his arm. Mickey still said nothing, opting instead to drain his bottle and balance it on the edge of the table. Ian glanced around the dark basement, and his eyes fell on a few empty beer bottles on the table before the couches. He eyed Mickey again and saw the unsteadiness in his movements, “are you drunk?”

Mickey snorted rudely, “no. but give me a minute.”

Ian came around the table and reached out to touch him, but Mickey danced out of the way and shook him off.

“Get off me,” Mickey snapped and looked at Ian in disbelief, “you just crawled out from under him and you’re coming to me? What the fuck do you take me for?!”

Ian flinched and paused for a moment. He stared at Mickey, who stared back at him looking lost, angry and bewildered all at once. Ian frowned and his hand shot forward, fisting into Mickey’s tank and yanking him forward. Their lips crashed together and Ian could taste the alcohol on Mickey’s breath and chaos radiating from him. He grabbed Mickey’s ass with both hands and ground against him, and grunted with pleasure when Mickey kissed back fiercely and plunged his hands into his hair.

Ian pushed Mickey to the floor and quickly straddled him. He pulled off Mickey boxers and tossed them aside then grasped his erection firmly and squeezed it gently from root to tip. It was crazy; they were hidden by the pool table but that was hardly any cover at all, but the danger of it seemed to spur them on even more.

“Can’t,” Mickey whimpered before the protest gave way to a moan and he arched into Ian’s warm grasp. Ian stopped to yank off his own boxers and settled to grind against Mickey. He swiftly stifled Mickey’s moans with one hand, while licking the palm of the other and wrapping it around them both. He rocked slowly against Mickey as he pumped their erections in equal rhythm and lost himself completely in the pleasure of it. They locked eyes and Ian uncovered Mickey’s mouth so he could swipe his thumb gently across Mickey’s lips. Mickey captured Ian’s thumb between his lips and sucked lightly as the tension built and soon they were coming together with soft grunts and moans, both spilling into Ian’s hand.

“Stupid,” Mickey huffed after a couple minutes while they slowly came down. Ian didn’t know if Mickey was chastising him, talking about himself or commenting on the whole situation in general.

“Don’t be mad at me,” Ian demanded quietly.

“I’m not,” Mickey sighed and covered his face with his hands. He didn’t know what he was, to be honest. He looked up at Ian and shoved at him, “I’m not mad, but can you just—don’t let him wake up and have to come looking.”

Ian hesitated then nodded and got off of Mickey. He grabbed his boxers and yanked them on, realizing a little just how much of a huge risk he had just taken. He gave Mickey another look before taking off upstairs to clean up and slip back into bed before he was missed.

* * *

Sal frowned at the sound of someone stirring in the room. The sun was dawning and the hour was ungodly. He looked around blearily and saw that Ian was up and rifling through his backpack while brushing his teeth.

“You got fire ants in your bed? What the fuck are you doing?” As long as he lived, he would never understand Ian’s boundless energy and unholy waking times. He seemed to get up earlier and earlier every time they spent the night together. He squinted at Ian in puzzlement, “were those the boxers you were wearing last night?”

Ian blinked at him, looked down at his underwear, and nearly had a small heart attack. In the heat of the moment and the dark of the basement, he had grabbed Mickey’s by mistake. He looked Sal dead in the eye and nodded, all the while brushing his teeth nonchalantly and raising a cool eyebrow as if Sal had just asked the weirdest question.

“I mean, I thought they were—never mind,” he sighed and rolled onto his back. He couldn’t even relax before there was an urgent knock on the door. “What?!” he yelled.

Mickey very tentatively stuck his head in and was evidently relieved by what he didn’t see. “I’ve got shit to do today, so I’m heading out. Just checking to see if college boy needed a ride.”

“It’s the ass crack of dawn; he isn’t even—”

“Ready!” Ian chirped, and Sal blinked to see that Ian was already shrugging on his coat. Mickey nodded and left the room.

“Is there a fucking fire I don’t know about?!” Sal groused as Ian edged towards the door. “What, not even a goodbye kiss?”

Ian glanced helplessly at the door and doubled back quickly to give Sal his kiss.

“Gallagher!” Mickey yelled sharply from somewhere outside the door, and Ian dropped a quick kiss on the top of Sal’s head and practically sprinted for the door.

“Goddamned kids, always in a fucking rush,” Sal grumbled and rolled over to go back to sleep until a decent goddamned hour.

Ian found Mickey waiting by the front door. He grinned broadly and shoved past him while Mickey sent him a harassed look. Before long, they were on the road, speeding away and breathing far more easily. Clearly they had to get better at this.

* * *

Ian threw his bag down with a happy sigh and shrugged off his coat. He turned and frowned when he saw that Mickey was still just inside the door, coat still on and an apologetic look on his face.

“You weren’t serious about having stuff to do?”

“I’ve got collections today. Gotta hit as many of the places as early as I can before they get too busy.  Less attention and less problems that way.”

Ian pouted but didn’t fight the point. “Well are you going to come back after you’re done? I thought we were going to hang out.”

“Nah, I’m leaving you alone today.”

Ian’s brow knitted and he felt himself go a little cold at Mickey’s words. “I thought you said you weren’t mad. If you’re seriously going to punish me every time I have to—”

“Jesus, who’s punishing you, you fucking drama queen?” Mickey rolled his eyes, “aren’t you the one with exams and shit in about a minute? I’m giving you study time. Get some sleep, hit your books and I’ll see you after.”

Ian chewed his lip, thinking it over, and came over to Mickey to fiddle with his tie. “Fuck that, this semester is fucked six ways from Sunday anyway.”

Mickey smiled up at him gently. “See, that’s just your fear talking. I’m not going to say you can’t bail on the semester, but I’m not going to be a part of that,” Mickey reached up and rubbed the back of Ian’s neck, a habit, Ian noticed, the Milkovich boys probably learnt from Sal to show affection. “Just read what you can, do what you can and make it through the semester. It doesn’t have to be pretty and maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.”

“What’s to stop me from blowing off studying anyway while you’re out ignoring me?”

“The fact that I know you’re not a quitter and you really want to kick this semester’s ass,” Mickey patted Ian’s face before chucking him under his chin. “So go fucking do it; I gotta go.”

“Alright, okay, just wait a minute—one thing,” Ian said, making Mickey pause before he headed out the door.

“What?”

Ian pulled Mickey back and shoved him roughly against the door, making Mickey grunt in surprise. Despite the manhandling, the kiss began gently and deepened quickly. Ian trailed his hand down Mickey’s body, down his thighs and back up to grasp his crotch. He smiled against Mickey’s mouth as the latter groaned  when Ian groped him, working him up to partial arousal before slowly pulling away.

“Something to remember me by,” Ian whispered, grinning wickedly.

“I fucking hate you so much right now,” Mickey said and flipped Ian off before slipping out the door.

* * *

Business Communications had been surprisingly easy. Granted, it was basically just English, and that had always been one of Ian’s strongest subjects, and yes, the true juggernauts of the semester were yet to come. Still, it was a huge confidence boost to feel as if he’d knocked the first one out of the park, and his study sessions now felt far less dire.

He was studying at the pool house, even though Sal had sent Iggy to summon him, since Mickey was working. When Ian had arrived, he immediately clocked that Sal was high on a cocktail of drugs Ian could only guess at. It had left Sal spaced out and malleable, and Ian hadn’t hesitated to talk his way out of sex so he could study instead. Sal sat on the couch, smiling goofily at _I love Lucy_ reruns while Ian sat on the adjacent side—well out of reach—with his nose in his book.

He looked up at the sound of the door opening and fought back his knee jerk reaction at Mickey’s entrance. Mickey clearly had done the same, because Mickey’s dazzler of a smile was brief and disappeared the moment he realized Sal was there. Ian and Mickey nodded coolly to each other, though Ian couldn’t look away for the life of him, and he watched as Mickey prepared to run upstairs. Sal stopped him.

“Hey,” Sal called after Mickey and waved him over with a sluggish hand, “come here a second. Sit down.”

Mickey hesitated, tugging self-consciously at the jacket sleeves and shot Ian a quizzical look. Ian shrugged and Mickey tentatively took a seat next to Sal.

“Guess who I saw today?” Sal asked and clapped Mickey on his knee, “Booker, the old fuck that owns that Model T you fixed up.”

“Yeah?” Mickey relaxed and perked up.

“Said he can’t believe it’s the same car. Runs like a fucking dream; he can’t get over it. If it wasn’t for the obvious limitations, he’d be running that shit as his main car,” Sal grinned, “I swear to god, he was losing his goddamned mind over it. I don’t know why he was so fucking surprised to be honest. I told him from the start that my boy was a fucking magician. ‘Nobody’s better than my Mickey,’ I said. I told him didn’t I? My fucking general,” Sal chortled and rubbed his hand in Mickey’s hair.

Mickey practically glowed from the praise. “That Renault came in today,” Mickey said shyly, “it’s fucking beautiful.”

“Yeah? I need to see it when you get it all fixed up. Take your time with it. Booker has been spreading the gospel to his little fancy car group fuckers, so they’ll be coming. You’re gonna make more money legit than with all our rackets. You’re the only soldier I got that’s worth a damn.”

Ian frowned as he watched the exchange and felt a growing unease with it. He wasn’t sure why it should bother him. Sal was stoned out of his mind, but it had put him in a good, affectionate mood, and Mickey deserved to hear good things from him. Still, the whole thing irritated Ian. Part of it, he realized, was jealousy and apprehension over Mickey’s obvious affection for Sal and desire for his approval and praise. It was a crazy thing to feel jealous about and Ian immediately tried to chide himself out of it, but reason failed him. Mostly what bothered him though was the unsettling familiarity of it—having a surprising, tender moment with someone whose affection you craved, but  who was usually just consistently awful and abusive.

He hated that Mickey was locked in that same sick cycle with Sal. He knew how powerful of a grip it had and how hard it could be to break out of it. The last thing he wanted was for Mickey to keep getting broken down by it and for Mickey to keep prioritizing or choosing Sal out of some misguided sense of loyalty and duty. He tried to push the thoughts away and focus on his book as Sal continued to wax rhapsodic.

“There isn’t a day that goes by that I didn’t wish you weren’t mine by blood,” Sal said, frowning a little as he rambled on, “but it doesn’t fucking matter. The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. That’s how the saying really goes. I bet even the college boy didn’t know that, huh?” Sal snickered and kicked at Ian’s leg before turning his full attention back to Mickey. “Doesn’t fucking matter. Everything I have is yours. You stick with Sal Boerio, kid. You’re my fucking prince and I take care of my own.”

* * *

It was a strange ride back home for Ian. Mickey was mostly silent, barely responding when Ian tried to engage him. Ian spent much of the journey nervously filling the silence and trying to keep his paranoia at bay. When they got to Ian’s apartment, he performed his ritual of dropping his bag and sighing with relief, but when he turned back, Mickey was hovering outside the door, seemingly unable to cross the threshold.

“You’re not coming in?” Ian asked quietly and his heart clenched a little at the obvious conflict on Mickey’s face. Mickey sucked in his lower lip and stared at Ian before darting a look at the elevator.

Ian knew what was happening—that the moment with Sal had messed with Mickey’s head and his already shaky resolve. Ian wondered if he should just tell him that it didn’t matter in the long run, that the moment with Sal was just a small island in an ocean of hurt and manipulation. That Sal wasn’t going to love him the way Ian did; wasn’t going to love him in any way that was right. That the men they had as fathers and father figures weren’t capable of loving them, not even on the best days and with the best intentions—it was simply beyond their capacities.

But Ian understood Mickey’s hesitation, because it really never ended. Even now, knowing everything he knew and after going through everything he had, Ian knew that if Frank reached out, there would be a part of him that would hope and respond, only to be inevitably disappointed. So Ian wasn’t going to tell Mickey any of those painful truths, because on some level, Mickey already knew that, but it was hard as hell not to hope.

So Ian wasn’t going to say anything at all to the man hesitating at his doorway. Instead he went to him, took him by his tie, and pulled him across the threshold. 


	13. Regulate

“So Lisa says she thinks we could get serious,” Iggy informed his brothers as they cruised towards the docks.

Tony twisted in the front passenger seat to peer around at his brother. “Lisa from Sandrini’s? Loose Lisa? You’re still banging her?”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘Loose Lisa’?” Iggy frowned at his amused brother.

“Nothing, nothing…it’s just a nickname,” Tony said before asking with faux innocence, “hey, does she still do that thing with her little finger where she shoves it up your ass just before you nut?”

Iggy’s mouth dropped open and before he could even form a response, Joey was chiming in from his seat next to him.

“Yeah, fucking classic. It weirded me out at first, but she knows what she’s doing, man.”

“What the fuck?! The two of you fucked Lisa? My Lisa?!” Iggy asked incredulously. Tony nudged Mickey, whose mind had been split between driving and thinking about a squeaky bed in a crappy apartment and the redhead contained in both.

“Hey, Mick, you hearing this? Iggy’s thinking about getting serious with Loose Lisa.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow, “Lisa from Sandrini’s? That Lisa? She still do that thing with her little finger where she—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you too?!” Iggy threw up his hands in disgust, “she said I was the one. She said I was the only one who brought out the animal in her.”

“She did a fucking handstand in the middle of the goddamned bed,” Mickey shook his head as he reminisced, “I didn’t know what the fuck to do. It was like playing late stage Jenga—how the fuck do you move? Where the hell do you put your hands? What the fuck?”

“That’s cause you were trying to keep up with her acrobatic shit,” Tony said, “I just lay back and let her go Romanian gymnast on me.”

“She gave me a Charley Horse,” Joey lamented, “it was my fault though, I probably should have warmed up first.”

“What in the ever loving fuck?!” Iggy demanded.

“Hey now, don’t get salty about it. Maybe she is serious about you. Just because we’ve all smacked her in the face with our dicks doesn’t take away from whatever it is the two of you have,” Tony said wisely.

“Yeah, I mean, so what if we all rode her hard and put her up wet?” Mickey said, “the only things that matter here are the feelings, you know; emotions and shit.”

“Gave me a back spasm too,” Joey murmured, “she made me feel really out of shape.”

Iggy was done and started flipping off each of his brothers. “You know what, fuck you, Colin. Fuck you, Tony, you’re somebody’s father, and fuck you too, Mick. You’re like the worst gay dude in fucking history.”

Mickey blinked at his purpling brother in the rear-view mirror before turning to Tony, both a picture of fraternal affront. “Are you hearing this? After everything we just did to make this little bitch feel better.”

“I’ve never seen such ingratitude,” Tony shook his head sadly. “But what can you do?”

“She scares my dick sometimes,” Joey mumbled under his breath. Iggy said nothing and simply glowered out the window for the rest of the ride.

They parked a short distance away from the rear of their target and watched silently for a while. Mickey finally gave the signal and they all climbed out, only for Tony to walk around the car to get into the driver’s seat.

“You’re not coming?” Mickey asked.

“This is going to involve running and I don’t run, fool, not any more. Just make sure to flush him out this way,” Tony said and turned the engine over.

Mickey, flanked by Joey and Iggy, walked around to the front of the pub. When they stepped inside, Mickey pulled a sawn-off shotgun out of his trench coat and did a quick sweep of the patrons.

“Get out,” he said quietly and not a soul felt the urge to tarry. The pub emptied quickly, leaving the Milkovich brothers alone with the bartender, who was frozen behind the bar. Mickey eyed him coolly, “you got my money?”

The young man shook his head frantically and pointed towards the rear of the store. He wasn’t paid nearly enough to deal with this bullshit. Mickey ordered his brothers to stay with the bartender and keep watch while he went around the back. The moment the owner set eyes on Mickey and his shotgun, he didn’t hesitate. The older man pulled away from his desk and bolted for the back door.

Mickey didn’t chase him, opting instead to grab a fistful of chocolates out of the bowl of sweets on the man’s desk and listen for the sound of screeching tires and a dull thump. When Mickey headed outside, the pub owner was on the ground, moaning before the car.

Mickey stooped to the crumpled man. “Mr. Anthony, this is your last warning. Are you going to have all my money next collection day?”

The man nodded and curled himself into an even tighter ball, clutching painfully at his leg. Mickey felt he’d made his point. He nodded to Tony and texted Iggy and Joey to get out. It was on to the next target.

* * *

The brothers were finishing up their last collection for the day when Mickey’s phone rang. He checked the caller ID and glanced around to see where his brothers were. Tony was making the collection while Iggy and Joey were fooling around with the arcade machines in the far corner. Mickey stepped outside the bar into the dying afternoon light and took the call.

“Hey,” he cringed a little at the way his voice softened at its own accord. Fortunately, Ian’s voice was just as bad.

“Hey.”

“So how did it go?” Mickey asked and was amused by Ian’s dramatic sigh.

“It was the fucking worst. I feel like I got spanked. This is your fault,” Ian accused.

“What, how?”

“I was going to skip that fucking final, but no, you had to make me go,” Ian sighed again. “Where are you?”

“Out.”

“Out doing what? What are you doing now?”

“What did I say to you about asking me about my business?”

Ian exhaled noisily, making Mickey smile. “You need to come over now. You’re the reason I did the exam, so you’re my reward for sitting through it.”

Mickey’s smile widened, “I am, huh? Like hell I was going to let you skip your last final. So you’re just going to decide on your own that I’m a reward?”

“Yes, I act unilaterally, get used to it. Now how soon can you get here?”

Mickey glanced at his watch and gave another cautious look around. “Give me an hour.”

“Half an hour.”

“I wasn’t opening up negotiations, dickhead. I’m a little constrained by the rules of time and space here.”

Ian grumbled impatiently, “ugh fine, you have an hour. The less you make me wait, the better it will be for you.”

“Yeah?” Mickey pulled at his collar, trying to cool his warming skin, “how’s that?”

Ian’s laugh was husky, and Mickey thought it was the heights of unfairness the way Ian could make his voice so rough and sexy without even trying.

“Your hour starts now; don’t keep me waiting.”

* * *

Mickey dumped his brothers and made it to Ian’s in what he thought was record time. He pushed the door open and found Ian in bed in his sweats, eating a bowl of cereal and watching a movie on his laptop.  Ian looked up at his entry, but said nothing. Instead, Mickey looked on as Ian closed his laptop and walked past him silently to head into the kitchen.

Mickey was left standing at the door, his apprehension building a little as Ian ignored him to wash up the dishes. Ian could be fucking weird sometimes, and Mickey couldn’t help but wonder if something had happened within the hour to piss Ian off. When Ian finally finished in the kitchen, he came back out and promptly shoved Mickey against the door—another favourite move of his. The relief Mickey felt when Ian’s lips met his was almost palpable.

“One hour and fourteen minutes,” Ian said when he pulled away. “You’re fourteen minutes late. I almost finished a whole movie.”

“You were seriously timing that shit?” Mickey asked incredulously. “It’s rush hour; I hit traffic.”

“Whatever, you have fourteen minutes to make up to me.”

Mickey looked at Ian as if he was growing a second head. “It’s like you’re speaking Greek right now. How the fuck am I supposed to ‘make up’ fourteen minutes?”

Ian shrugged and backed away to sit on the edge of the bed. He looked at Mickey expectantly, “you’re a smart guy; figure it out.”

Mickey got the hint. He quickly began shedding his clothes while Ian watched him heatedly, and didn’t stop until he was clad only in his boxers. He got to his knees between Ian’s legs and undid the laces of his sweatpants. Ian was already half hard and Mickey grasped Ian’s cock firmly and gave a few slow licks to the head of it.

“You’re not gonna last fourteen minutes,” Mickey teased, “you’re not even gonna last four.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Ian warned as he fisted his hand in Mickey’s hair and made him plunge his mouth down the length of his cock.

* * *

“It wasn’t as bad as you think,” Mickey murmured softly as he lay propped up against the pillows. The room was covered in darkness and Ian was on top of him, sliding against him and pressing kisses along his chest and shoulder as they basked in the afterglow.

“You’re crazy,” Ian sighed softly, “it was amazing; you’re amazing.” And even that was an insane understatement. Ian reached up and pressed a kiss against the pulse point at Mickey’s neck, and revelled in the feel of Mickey’s hands running through his hair, over his shoulders and down his back.

“I know that, asswipe,” Mickey rolled his eyes, “I was talking about your finals. I’m betting it wasn’t nearly as bad as you think.”

They probably weren’t as bad as Ian had thought, but then, everything automatically felt better when Mickey was around. He had answered all the questions, though he hadn’t been confident about them. Still, maybe the semester hadn’t been a complete wash. Like Mickey said, it might not be pretty, but at least he had gotten through it.

“What will you give me if I pass them all?” Ian asked as he finally settled against Mickey’s chest.

“What do you want?”

 _You._ It was remarkable how easy the answer was; it was all over Ian’s brain. If the intensity of it was unsettling to him, he didn’t want to imagine how badly it would spook Mickey. Ian shifted again and stared at Mickey’s face illuminated by the light from the window, and tried to think of a less intimidating response.

“Maybe we can take a road trip into Canada,” Ian suggested softly. He could feel Mickey’s body tense, so he added quickly, “we don’t have to get all the way there or anything, just see how far we get.  It’s mostly about us just hanging out for a while, far from here, you know?” He could feel Mickey’s body relax and he smiled when Mickey nodded.

“Yeah, I can do that.”

Ian nodded back and rested his head on Mickey’s chest. “So I’m on Christmas break now. What do you guys normally do for the holidays?”

“We don’t do shit. Milkoviches aren’t exactly a holly, jolly holiday bunch. Well, Tony and Jaime have kids now, so they hang with their families. The rest of us just kind of fuck around, I don’t know.”

Ian chewed his inner cheek and stroked Mickey’s chest. “So I’m thinking of heading down to see my family for Christmas break,” Ian said and hesitated before adding, “you, um, wanna come with?”

“Can’t, holidays are always busy season for the Outfit. I still have shit to run, can’t go anywhere.”

“Oh,” Ian automatically switched to the next option. “Well, I can stay if you want. We can just hang out…”

He trailed off lamely, hating how needy he sounded. He can’t believe this is what Alex had wished for him—this desperate, grasping, consuming feeling to just swoop in and take over everything. He wanted to play it cool, but he couldn’t and the idea of spending the holidays away from Mickey was already making him crazy. He didn’t trust Mickey’s feelings for him yet, and he couldn’t help the paranoia that he’d be out of sight and out of mind, and Mickey would simply sober up and write him off.

“It’s the holidays with your family though.”

“Nah, it’s not that big a deal. It’s a miracle if everyone actually showed up in the first place. They probably wouldn’t even notice if I did or didn’t make an appearance.”

“Shut up, it’s your family. They probably miss the shit out of you. I’m not going to ask you to skip Christmas with your—”

Ian shifted, cutting Mickey off, and moved to settle on the pillows next to him. He stroked Mickey’s face and shook his head.

“Seriously, it’s not a big deal. They won’t care. Everybody’s caught up in their own shit and the holidays just make it worse. Think about it, I can tell Sal I’m heading home for the holidays, but I stay and we can just hang out here. We can order like a ton of Chinese food and just watch crappy movies or whatever.”

“That does sound kind of nice,” Mickey admitted and slowly smiled at Ian. “You sure about this?”

“I’ve never been surer about anything.”

* * *

It was honestly sort of perfect. Two solid weeks of no Sal, no pool house, and no stress about fucking up and getting caught. Two whole weeks in the bubble of Ian’s apartment; two weeks of bad movies and amazing sex and feeling this alien thing between them escalate and take on a life of its own.

Christmas came and went quietly, and Ian made the requisite phone calls to his family to apologise, catch up quickly and express well-wishes. In the end, he’d been a little relieved that his predictions had been mostly right. Lip was stuck at the lab working on his team’s secret project, while Debbie and Carl had bailed to make their own Christmases worthwhile. Ian shuddered at the thought of sitting in the awkward tension of Fiona’s home, wondering what the latest fight or issue with her husband was all about. Still, there was sadness mixed in with the relief. It had been a while and his family was still scattered and he couldn’t help but wonder if any of them considered the same place “home” any more.

“You okay?” Mickey asked as he came through the door, laden with groceries. Ian nodded, smiled and rolled off the bed to follow Mickey into the tiny kitchen. He hugged Mickey from behind, hampering Mickey’s unpacking efforts, but neither of them was about to complain about it.

They had heard before that one should ring in the New Year doing whatever it was one wanted to do for the rest of the year. So that was a no brainer. They skipped the cold and the fireworks, and rang in the year with a few explosions of their own. The stroke of midnight found them both locked together, screaming each other’s names over the noisiness of the bed and the burst of the fireworks outside the window.

Ian had to admit, Mickey really did have a way of making everything feel so much better. So it wasn’t so bad, Ian decided, that he’d been forced to find another home away from his first one. It hadn’t been expected and it was slowly turning Ian inside out, but it was honestly sort of perfect.

* * *

The bubble couldn’t last for long and Ian was back at the pool house at Sal’s request once again. To Ian’s relief, Sal had been called away before Ian could even get there. He passed the time playing poker with Iggy, Joey and Tony and ignored the blatant cheating on the part of the brothers.

They were in the middle of the game when Mickey came home from the garage and found them in the basement. Ian focused on his cards, still trying to figure out how to act normally around Mickey. There were responses that were just automatic and it was a constant struggle not to give the game away.

“Douchebags,” Mickey drawled and stomped down the basement stairs. He leaned against the back of the couch, directly behind Ian’s chair, “where’s Sal and Jaime?”

“Mr. Montclair called and asked for a sit-down,” Tony told him, “Sal took Jaime and one of the made boys. Watch it with him, Sal’s been in a weird fucking mood lately; probably because he hasn’t gotten his pipes cleaned in a while.”

Ian snorted gamely at Tony’s tease, but he could feel Mickey’s sudden tension behind him. The brothers continued swapping stories and joking, and Ian sighed with relief when he felt Mickey relax again. Ian managed to ease into it and there was a semblance of familial normalcy to the whole thing. That is until Mickey decided to lean over him and, under the guise of adjusting Ian’s cards, rested his hand on the back of Ian’s neck and stroked him gently with his thumb. The ministration was hidden from the brothers and seemed platonic enough, but it set Ian on fire.

“Don’t let these fuckers cheat you out of anything,” Mickey said lightly and pulled back while his brothers loudly protested the slander.

Ian was trying to keep the heat out of his face. Mickey knew he was weak to shit like that. It was yet another thing Ian had to get used to in this strange relationship—this constant craving to be touched and shown affection. Ian wasn’t sure what he was turning into. He had been in secret relationships ever since he had hit puberty and he’d always understood the constraints that came with them. There weren’t going to be any public displays of affection—no holding hands or hugs or soft kisses, no open acknowledgement—and Ian had been fine with that. Along the way, he had convinced himself that maybe these weren’t things he wanted or needed at all.

What it was about being with Mickey that changed all that, Ian didn’t know. All he knew was that all of a sudden, he wanted everything. He wanted dumb stuff—he wanted to go out to eat, he wanted to roughhouse with Mickey in public, for Mickey to just lean up and kiss the crook of his neck without warning, the way he did when they were alone, he wanted to hold Mickey’s hand, even if his brothers were around. But Ian was trying to be smart and reasonable and practical. It felt impossible at times. Being with Mickey might make everything feel better, but it certainly wasn’t making things easy.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Mickey declared and shoved away from the couch. “Try not to burn shit down while I’m gone.”

The other men murmured in response and Ian watched Mickey head up the stairs. He managed to wait all of ten minutes before he was calling it quits with the poker game. He told the brothers that he had to check for his grades and check his class availability, not that they were asking, but Ian felt the need to at least try and cover his tracks. He checked behind him constantly as he climbed the stairs to the second floor and headed to Mickey’s bedroom. Mickey’s door was unlocked and Ian made one more cursory check before he quickly stepped inside and closed it behind him.  

Ian could hear the shower running and he headed towards the sound. Mickey’s clothes had been tossed in a pile at the foot of his bed and Ian stepped over them carefully on his way to the bathroom. He slowly and quietly opened the door and leaned inside. Mickey’s glass shower was transparent and Ian was sure there was some very worrying, mob-related reasoning for it, but he chose to focus on the titillating aspects instead. He stood silently for a couple minutes, watching Mickey bathe under the heavy spray of water.

“At least close the fucking door if you’re just going to fucking stand there,” Mickey said, apparently completely aware that Ian had been there the whole time. Ian obediently entered the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

* * *

“You’re so fucking weird,” Mickey whispered shakily. He stood before the bathroom door, dripping wet since Ian wouldn’t let him dry anywhere except his hair. He looked down at Ian and shivered again as Ian’s tongue found and followed another rivulet of water that had trailed down his thigh.

Ian only hummed in response. He wasn’t about to deny that. He seemed to be developing all manner of odd kinks lately. He licked at the side of Mickey’s knee and trailed his tongue up the length of his inner thigh. He nipped and sucked at the spot just below the juncture where Mickey’s thigh met his pelvis. He kept at it until an angry red mark bloomed at the spot, and Ian was tempted to leave them everywhere.

He kissed Mickey’s hips and licked at more drops of water, careful only to brush against Mickey’s straining erection to drive him insane. He loved smelling Mickey, felt like he was getting high on the scent of him, and he buried his face in the tight curls of Mickey’s pubic hair and licked and kissed whatever his tongue and lips could reach.  He ran his hands up the back of Mickey’s thighs to squeeze his ass before sliding them back down again.

“Please,” Mickey’s broken plea for relief was soft and his hands were gentle in Ian’s hair. Ian locked eyes with him and slowly and deliberately began swallowing Mickey down. Ian gripped Mickey’s hips to steady and hold him still as he took him in deeply. He could already taste the tang of Mickey’s pre-come and he watched the blue eyes darken and Mickey’s lips part as his breathing grew ragged.

 _“Mine,”_ Ian thought to himself. This possessiveness threw him; it was new to him like the rest of it all. He wanted it to be like this all the time, just the two of them. He didn’t want Mickey looking like that at anyone else, he didn’t want anyone else making Mickey feel this way. After all this time being satisfied with being someone’s secret or lesser priority, the need to own and be owned was even more powerful and overwhelming than he had imagined it could be. Still there was nothing he wanted more.

“Yo, Mick!”

They both went stock-still at the sound of Iggy and Joey knocking on the bathroom door. Mickey froze, his face going white and his hand stilling in Ian’s hair.

“What?!”

“Do you know where we left the air rifles? Me and Iggy wanna take them out.”

Mickey sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Did you check the last fucking place you left them? They’re probably still under the mat in the Chevy.”

Ian could hear the brothers muttering their agreement outside the door. He smiled around Mickey’s cock and resumed his measured pace, making Mickey’s hands clench in his hair once more.

“Now could you give me five fucking minutes to myself please?” Mickey asked testily.

On the other side of the door, the two brothers gave each other knowing looks and grinned. “Stroking it,” they said in unison and Ian almost choked while Mickey rolled his eyes.

“And shut my fucking door,” Mickey yelled after them as he heard them head out the room. He then looked down at Ian and whispered, “you gonna stay down there all day or you wanna get on me?”

Unlike the blow job, what came next was not a slow or gentle affair. They were both trying their best to stay silent and what they lacked in sound, they made up in force. Mickey reached up and gripped the towel rack as Ian slammed into him. He couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped when Ian yanked his hair back with one hand and stroked his leaking cock with the other.  Ian stifled his own sounds by burying his face in Mickey’s neck and for a while, there were only the sounds of their harsh, mingled breathing and the hard slap of their bodies against each other.

Mickey came first with a strangled moan. He then watched with strange fascination and detachment as his ejaculate dripped down the door until he could feel Ian reaching his own climax deep inside him. They were still for a moment, Ian sagging against Mickey’s back, sandwiching him against the door as they caught their breaths. Mickey finally shoved him off and Ian pulled up his pants, grinning like a demon.

“Gonna need to take another fucking shower now,” Mickey grumbled as he flipped around to face Ian. He looked tired and replete, and he raked Ian’s face with his eyes, “don’t look so fucking pleased with yourself.”

The admonishment only made Ian’s smile worse and he promptly swooped forward to kiss Mickey until his legs were jelly beneath him.

“What did I say about doing that?” Mickey said.

“I don’t know, what did you say?”

Mickey gave his idiot a half-hearted glare. “Get the fuck out and look both ways before you cross the passageway.”

Ian had barely made it into the other room and settled into the chair when Sal came back. The man’s face lit up when he saw Ian. He walked over and went to stroke Ian’s face only for Ian to flinch away from the touch before he seemed to remember himself. He smiled weakly at Sal, but Sal’s hand dropped to his side and he peered at Ian closely.

“What’s the matter, not happy to see me?”

Ian snorted derisively, but he slid out of the chair and headed for his school bag, staying awkwardly out of Sal’s reach. “You know I’m happy to see you; don’t get weird, Sal.”

“Weird, huh?” Sal scratched his nose and sat in the abandoned chair, “haven’t seen you for two weeks. I thought you’d be a little more enthusiastic about reuniting.”

“I am,” Ian reassured him hastily and sat on the edge of the bed so he could pat Sal’s knee fondly. “I’m just worried over getting my grades and starting the semester soon, you know?”

Sal nodded, there always seemed to be excuses with Ian lately, they were reasonable, Sal admitted to himself, but suspiciously abundant. The two weeks Ian had been away, it had been as if the young man had fallen off the face of the earth, and Sal’s paranoia had kicked into overdrive.

“How was it—Christmas with your family?” Sal asked.

Ian shrugged and smiled tiredly, “family is weird.”

Sal found himself smiling back, his suspicion subsiding for the moment as he empathized with the sad, sincere note in Ian’s voice. He grabbed Ian’s hand and rubbed it soothingly. “Kid, you don’t know the half.”

* * *

The following day, Mickey decided to put in a full work day at the garage. At midday, he took a break and headed to the nearest sandwich shop. While he waited for his food, his phone chirped and he checked it to find a picture of Ian grinning up at him from his bed. _“You should be here right now,”_ Ian had added on, and Mickey sent his usual “fuck off,” saved the picture to a protected folder and then deleted the text. He was still grinning to himself when he headed outside to make his way back to the garage.

“Well don’t you look happy?” An unwelcome voice called out to him. Mickey paused and looked around to find Agent Fowler leaning easily against his parked car. Mickey snorted and resumed his walk back to work. The federal agent fell in step with him, undeterred by the chilly response. “Don’t act like you don’t see me, boy. I know you have better manners than that.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and kept walking. He unrolled his sandwich and began eating, intent on ignoring his unwanted companion.

“You’ve grown a little,” Agent Fowler said fondly, “your rap sheet has grown a lot more. You keep that up and soon the law-biding citizens of this country won’t want anything at all to do with you. What have I always said about running ‘a fowl’ of the law?”

God that was painful, Mickey actually had to pause for a moment and groan out loud to the heavens. Agent Fowler was nonplussed.

“What? You and your sister used to love that joke!”

“Yeah, well, we were like ten, so…”

The agent nodded and raised his hands in mock surrender. “You know, I was transferred out for a while, but I kept up to speed on you kids. Some of this grey hair up here?” Agent Fowler pointed to his head, “courtesy of you and Mandy.”

“Save yourself the grief; we’re good.”

“I made a pledge that I’d see you get out of this life, Mickey, and I’m going to,” Agent Fowler said, all traces of humour now gone, “I just need you to help me make it happen. I need you to give me, Sal.”

Mickey let out a bark of laughter, “please, sir, with all due respect, fuck off.”

“I can protect you; give you a shot at a normal, decent life.”

“You couldn’t protect me from shit,” Mickey snorted, “fuck the Outfit, even if they couldn’t, Sal would never stop until he found me. ‘A normal, decent life,’ get outta here with that bullshit. What kind of life? Holed up in some fucking trailer park in Arizona, looking over my shoulder every day until I finally get a bullet in my head? Thanks, but no thanks.”

Fowler moved ahead and stopped Mickey in his tracks by blocking his way. “We could protect you. This life is leading you nowhere but prison or death, and I’m trying to save you from that. You’re a smart kid, Mickey; you could have a chance, a real chance of making it away from all this mess.”

Mickey shook his head, “I ain’t no snitch and I’ll never give Sal up to any of you fucking pigs. He took us out of the gutter when all you government assholes were looking the other way while we were fucking starving and on our own. If it wasn’t for him, we’d have been six feet under, or fucking fighting through foster care. You know what happens to kids like us in foster care? To girls like Mandy?”

“You don’t think you’ve repaid your debt?” Fowler asked, “as far as I’m concerned, you switched one bad situation for another one. Sal saved you for a minute, Mickey, then he’s been fucking up your life ever since.”

Mickey shook his head in disgust and stepped around the agent to keep walking. Agent Fowler quickly caught up. “You should think about it, Mickey. You need to think about what options you have.”

“I don’t need to think about anything!” Mickey whirled on him, “Everything I know is here, my life is here, my family is here, I just fell—” Mickey stopped himself and sighed deeply, “you need to find some other sucker to commit suicide, because I’m not him. You have a nice day, Agent Fowler; let’s not make this a regular thing.”

* * *

Agent Maria Hernandez was late for her briefing. She was new and the building was like a freaking labyrinth. When she finally found the conference room, she took a moment to pat and reign in her curls before she opened the door and strode inside. The rest of the team was already there. Agent Fowler was sticking pictures to the whiteboard, showing the Outfit hierarchy. At the table, the rest of the team—three other agents, sat waiting.

“Agent Hernandez, good of you to join the party,” Fowler greeted.

“I’m so sorry, sir, I thought I knew where to find this room.”

“Don’t worry about it; this place is a freaking labyrinth when you’re new. Have a seat, let’s get this going.”

“I can’t believe the Mob is still a thing,” Hernandez observed as she slid into a seat at the conference table. “It’s like I took a left turn and wound up in Anthropology instead of criminal investigations.”

“As long as people want things and are willing to get them illicitly, the Mob will always have a place. Still, it’s going to be hell when the old guard finally dies out and the kids take over. Tradition is a millstone around their necks in this day and age. Alright, follow along children,” Agent Fowler stepped to the side of the whiteboard and nodded to the pyramid. “At the top of the food chain, John Fischetti, has been the Don since the mid-nineties; his consigliere, Jimmy Lombardo, going strong despite being the ripe old age of eighty-six years old, we should all be so lucky.  
Next is the underboss, Nicholas Carlisi. He’s dying of lung cancer and there are plays being made to be the next underboss among the Capos. The front runner is Tony Salerno, practically a sure thing from what my informants tell me. But who I really want to focus on is this guy.”

Fowler tapped on the picture of Sal in the third tier. “Salvatore Boerio, one of the North side Capos. Started climbing the rungs by marrying Fischetti’s favourite niece—first and last good thing he’s done since then.”

“Why are we focusing on him?” Agent Hendricks, a young African-American man chimed in.

“He’s the weakest link of the bunch,” Fowler informed his team as he isolated Sal’s picture and started putting up pictures of his associates around him. “He’s not well-liked or respected within the Outfit. In fact, the powers that be view him with a fair amount of disdain. He has a few proclivities that they’re not quite happy with. Still, he’s high-ranking enough and therefore privy to a whole lot of secrets. We knock him down, stroke his ego a bit, and I see him rolling on the higher-ups.”

“His crew?”

“Sal’s main crew is atypical,” Fowler nodded at a picture of Mickey directly below Sal’s. “Meet his main soldier and unofficial consigliere, Mickey Milkovich.”

“Milkovich,” Hernandez raised an eyebrow, “doesn’t sound like any Italian I’ve ever heard of.”

“Ukrainian, I think, or Russian; Sal doesn’t trust his fellow countrymen. He thinks they’re all out to get him.”

Hernandez peered closer at the picture. “And consigliere, really? He’s twelve.”

“Twenty-two actually,” Fowler corrected and nodded to the tablet in front of her, indicating that she should read up.

“Fine, twenty-two, sir, which is basically just twelve with permission to drink. What the heck could he possibly know about being an adviser to an Outfit Capo?”

“Tread carefully with this one,” Agent Mueller sang out. She was an older woman with a sleek red bob, and the only agent on the team apart from Fowler who wasn’t fresh out of Quantico. “Agent Fowler has a soft spot for him.”

“Sal took in Mickey and his siblings when they were young kids. They never had a real chance and I would like to give them one,” Fowler explained, “as for Mickey, he’s been pretty much running Sal’s operation for years now, so I wouldn’t underestimate his abilities.”

“Can we roll him?” Hendricks asked, stroking his close-shaven goatee, “wouldn’t he be an easier target in order to get to Salvatore?”

“Been there, tried that. We’ll explore all options, but Sal is most likely the weakest link even among his own crew.” Fowler then went on to inform his team about the rest of the Milkoviches. “They’re one of the reasons Salvatore’s on the outs with the rest of the Outfit. They’re not exactly happy that sensitive Mob business might be in the hands of young boys who aren’t even blood. Sal’s use of the Milkoviches is basically an affront to the Mob, but as long as Sal stays in place, no one touches them.”

“What happens when Salvatore gets taken out of play?” Hendricks asked.

“We believe the Outfit will wipe them out as a matter of honour and principle,” Mueller informed the team coolly, “there are a lot of older, loyal made men who’ve been bypassed in favour of Mickey and his brothers, and they’re feeling quite vengeful about it.”

“Well this should make them malleable, right?” Hernandez frowned at her tablet, “I mean, are they aware of this? If Sal dies, they’re dead; if Sal gets taken out some other way, they’re still dead. Clearly they need to cast their lot elsewhere if they want to escape a death penalty. ‘Turn state’s evidence and maybe live to see your forties,’ sounds like an offer they can’t refuse.”

“You’d think so but unfortunately that’s not the case,” Fowler frowned at Mickey’s picture. “They won’t turn on him. The one thing Sal has done well is ingrain loyalty at any expense into them. It’s the weirdest thing with those boys; they know he’s an idiot, but they still think he’s a god.”

Hernadez’s brow furrowed in consternation at this insane brand of loyalty. “That sounds crazy. Are they his soldiers or are they his cult?”

That, in Fowler’s estimation, was a most excellent question.


	14. Trickle-down Economics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to the Dead Sal Society--you're a tenacious bunch.

It never got easier.

Not that it happened all that often; a one on one meeting with Sal was a rare occurrence. It was Mickey who had the face time with Sal and through Mickey they got their orders. Mickey was the intermediary whose heart didn’t pound when he was summoned and whose palms didn’t sweat. If Mickey’s mind spun with the dizzying number of worst case scenarios when Sal demanded to see him, Mickey never showed it. None of the brothers envied Mickey’s obvious favour from Sal—except when it was gift time—because Sal was a strange and mercurial man, and facing him was truly a nerve-wracking thing.

Outside the door of Sal’s study, Jaime wiped his palms on his trousers and tried to think positively, but it was a hopeless case. When Salvatore called him for a sit-down, it was never a good thing. Far more often than not, it meant pain for someone, and Jaime had strong suspicions about the latest possible target.

He finally gathered up enough courage to knock and Sal’s invitation to enter seemed quiet and even-tempered enough. This only served to ramp up Jaime’s anxiety. He slowly entered and found Sal slumped over his desk, eyes closed as he pressed his glass of bourbon against his head—the open bottle at his elbow. Sal looked up at Jaime’s entry and nodded to the empty seat across his desk.

“You know the mark of a good leader, Jaime?” Sal asked, his voice low and coarse, scraping across Jaime’s nerves as he produced another glass and poured out a couple fingers of bourbon. He plunked the glass in front of his soldier and leaned back. The space between them was smoky, the result of the pungent Cuban cigar still smouldering in the ash tray between them, and Jaime felt the weight of the room bearing down on him. He took a steadying sip of the burning, amber liquor and Sal followed up his question. “Different people have different ideas about what makes a good leader, Jaime, but you know what I think? It’s loyalty. What’s a leader without it, hmm?”

Jaime blinked at his boss, careful not to say a word and trying his best to betray nothing. His mind went straight to Mickey and his palms grew damp once again. _“He knows…”_ But no, Sal would never ask him to do something like that. Not to Mickey, not to his own brother…would he? He licked his lips nervously and waited, the adrenaline building in his veins. His eyes widened in shock when Sal stood and started coming around the desk.

“I’m not perfect, Jaime,” Sal perched on the desk directly next to him, filling Jaime’s field of vision and staring down at him from on high. “I’m not perfect, but I try to do right by my men, don’t I, Jaime? I try to do right by you boys.”

“Yeah, Sal,” Jaime mumbled, prompted by the expectant silence, “you’re good to us.”

“There isn’t a man here who can’t come to me. There isn’t a man here I wouldn’t take a bullet for. I do for my own. Is it too much to ask for a little fucking loyalty in return?!” he swooped down suddenly, grabbing the scruff of Jaime’s neck and forcing the startled man’s face close to his. “What’s worse, huh? The man who can’t keep his men loyal or the trash that turns on him? Just turns around and spits in his fucking face?! Am I trash, Jaime? Don’t I deserve some fucking loyalty?!”

Jaime’s heart was in his throat. There was the anger he feared, but had known would show eventually. He knew what was coming; he knew there would be pain. “You’re good to us, Sal,” Jaime reassured the glowering man with the vise-like grip around his neck. He tried not to squirm, tried to think, tried to find a path out of all of this. “Sometimes…sometimes mistakes get made,” Jaime whispered lowly and quailed as Sal’s eyes went glacial. He had said the wrong thing.

“There were no fucking mistakes. You don’t betray someone like this and call it a fucking mistake,” Sal pulled away, and Jaime wasn’t sure if it was better or worse than having Sal bearing down on him. “Anybody else would have left him in a fucking gutter, would have left any of you in the gutter, but not Salvatore Boerio. I take you in, you’re family; but family breaks your fucking heart!”

Jaime’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. Mickey would have ferreted out the problem ages ago and would have smoothed Sal’s ruffled feathers. But Mickey’s brain was all ginger lately and that was the trouble. He had the sneaking suspicion that his brother had done the exact opposite of shutting shit down and that was probably why Jaime was sitting in Sal’s study, trying to deal with a problem that he simply couldn’t handle. He froze when Sal’s eyes fell on him again.

“Do you understand loyalty, Jaime? Are you my soldier?” Sal’s hand settled heavily on Jaime’s shoulder and squeezed gently when Jaime nodded. He moved in closer, “sometimes I feel like I’m surrounded by nothing but snakes, but I can trust you, can’t I, Jaime?”

“Yeah, Sal, you can.”

“I know, I know, you’re one of the good ones. You’re my good boy, you’re my soldier, yeah?” he patted Jaime’s chest. “The people you call family, they turn around and ruin things, but you’re gonna help me fix it, aren’t you? You always come through for me. You’re my boy, Jaime; my fucking soldier.”

Jaime swallowed and nodded, finding that despite the chaos of it all, he still warmed from Sal’s validation. He was a good soldier; he did the dirty work, he never broke ranks, and he never gave Sal a reason not to trust him, but how far could he possibly be expected to go?

Sal reached back for the decanter and filled Jaime’s glass. “You’re the only one I could turn to for this. You’re the only one I can trust to set this right. It’s not an easy thing to raise a hand against a brother—”

Jaime’s heart fell and the blood froze in his veins at Sal’s words. He looked up at his boss in disbelief, searching the old man’s face as Sal pressed the glass into his hand.

“You’ll fix this for me, won’t you, Jaime?” There was that subtle shift in tone and the moment came when a request became an order. Sal rested a hand in Jaime’s dark hair and looked right at the boy still trapped behind his eyes. “You’re my killer, aren’t you, Jaime? You’re loyal and you’re gonna show what kind of man you are. I know you’re going to come through for me.”

* * *

He shouldn’t have come.

At least, he shouldn’t have gotten as high as he did before coming here. Sal stared at his hand as he flexed it. His whole body felt weirdly numb and it was as if he was slipping under water. He tried to remember the particular drug cocktail he had ingested before the call came and couldn’t—Dre’s concoctions were truly things of mind-altering beauty. But shit, how was he supposed to know that Carlisi would take a sudden downward turn? The old fuck had been lingering for years.

“Come now,” they had said, summoning him like a dog, “Carlisi’s on his last legs. We’re gathering to pay respect.”

Fuck Carlisi and fuck all of them; pay respect, his ass. They were gathering to pick Carlisi’s bones like the vultures they were, to take a front row seat to the macabre spectacle that was death and dying. He wanted none of it, he wanted out. The idea of death and disease made his skin crawl and made him want to claw his way through any and everything to escape. In his drug-addled mind, he could almost see the plague oozing out of Carlisi’s room, floating out to where the men were gathered, filling the room, threatening to strangle him. Sal could feel sweat break out over his body and he pulled desperately at his collar.

Every once in a while he caught the looks being sent his way. They could tell he was under the influence, but it wasn’t as if there was fuck all he could do about it. He hated these gatherings, hated the barely concealed hostility and disdain these bastards had for him, like he wasn’t their equal, like he wasn’t somebody. He flexed his hands again and tried to breathe deeply to dispel the rage and frustration coiling in his gut.

“Fucking cancer, huh?” Mike Spano, another Capo, said quietly to the men seated on the couches, silently nursing their drinks. “This goddamned disease is no respecter of persons. My son-in-law’s brother is one of those annoying fitness fuckers; forty years old and gets diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Ain’t that a bitch?”

The men within earshot all murmured their agreement and once again fell into an awkward silence. After a few moments, it was Mike who spoke up again. “So, uh, Big Tony’s still buying up those moving trucks, huh? It’s a good racket; it’s a good racket.”

“He got that idea when he was working under me,” Sal growled, unable to contain his bitterness. “I thought of that shit ages ago, but no one would back it.”

There was a flurry of exchanged looks and more than a little eye rolling before Mike sniffed, “yeah sure, Sal, whatever you say.”

He shouldn’t have come high, but still he wasn’t high enough. Nothing in his system was enough to let this shit slide. Sal felt something inside him boil over as the smug fucks smirked at each other and dismissed him completely.

“What the fuck are you trying to say?” Sal’s voice had climbed enough to have people glancing over. “What, I can’t have good ideas? Don’t I have a fucking brain; like I ain’t a fucking somebody?!”

A heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder and Sal’s head whipped around to see who the fuck dared to touch him. It was Tony—Big Tony—and Sal hated the way he quailed under the authoritative touch and the cold stare. Tony had blue eyes, just like his Mickey’s, which stood out in contrast against his olive skin. Tony’s eyes, though, could leave Sal cold in an instant. It bothered him sometimes, just how alike his former and current princes were, in both looks and attitude, but Sal could overlook it most of the time, because Mickey was his in a way Tony never was.

“Relax, Salvatore. What are you making all this noise for? Always so goddamned noisy; have a little respect for Mr. Carlisi. It’s a sombre time.”

Sal could only stare balefully at his former soldier. Tony Salerno overawed Sal in every way. He towered over everything and everyone, standing well over six feet, and was fit and broad shouldered, his body remaining hard and spare even as he got older. A few silver streaks stood out in stylish contrast to Tony’s dark, glossy hair. He was a presidential looking fucker, Sal always admitted to himself, beautiful to look at, but Tony put the fear of God into him even as an underling. Sal could never forge that connection, or ferret out that loyalty, and in the end, he was forced to hide his true self from his own goddamned subordinate.

Sal tried to keep his face blank as the sycophants in the room all but fell over themselves to rush to greet the newcomer. All that was left was for them to fall to their knees and kiss his fucking ring. Sal squirmed in his seat, feeling the stale envy churn in his gut as he watched Tony navigate the room. Tony wasn’t married, didn’t have kids, but no one questioned his manhood or virility. If anyone whispered dark, scandalous things about Tony Salerno, Sal never heard them. Tony was a man’s man, one of the lesser gods in the Chicago Outfit, and soon he would ascend to underboss.

“Oh Tony, it’s terrible,” Mrs. Carlisi, soon to be the widow Carlisi, fell on Tony’s neck and sobbed, her eyes soon shining gratefully as Tony whispered soothing words to her.

Sal rolled his eyes. _“Yeah, kiss his ass now, you wrinkled old bitch. Earn that money.”_ Her husband wasn’t even dead yet and she was already glomming on to the new blood. Her quality of life would be determined by Tony’s whims soon and she was moving quickly to ingratiate herself. But at the end of the day, who would be the new underboss would be Fischetti’s call and no one else’s. As far as Sal was concerned, the title was still very much in play and he had a trump card in his pocket. It wouldn’t be over until his bitch of a wife sang.

* * *

“Shame about Carlisi.”

Sal was stirred out of his reverie by his driver, Jimmy, as they wound their way home. Jimmy was one of his made men, who became his driver whenever the Milkoviches were unavailable or unacceptable. Sal snorted in response and continued staring out the window.

“The Big C, I gotta admit, it fucking scares me. You never know how or when that shit’s gonna pop up,” Jimmy continued.

“You never know when death’s gonna come for you in any form,” Sal grunted, “why fucking worry about it?”

Jimmy shrugged, “well you’re a lot cooler about it than I am, boss, I can say that much.”

“You see Tony today?” Sal asked suddenly; an abrupt change to the topic, “they’re dinging him for underboss. You think he’s a good replacement?”

Jimmy nodded easily, “I mean, it’s Big Tony, you know? Everybody loves Tony, and some new blood couldn’t hurt.”

Sal simply nodded and kept staring out the window.

* * *

He leaned back in the sofa and waited for the latest rail of coke to take effect. Nothing happened though and nothing was going to happen. He always left these gatherings feeling small, angry and emasculated and it only seemed to get worse the older he got. Drugs rarely helped when he felt like this. They either numbed him too much or amped him up further.

“Where the hell is everybody?” he grumbled as he stared bleakly around the empty pool house. It was late evening and hardly anyone was there lately, with Mickey turning into a ghost and his brothers only hanging out there when he was home.

Sal frowned and reached for his cell phone. He just needed to feel like a man again. He needed to get the ugly out. He frowned as Ian’s phone rang without answer and his grip turned crushing as he kept trying unsuccessfully. He stopped, dialled another number, and was still annoyed that it took Mickey four rings to pick up. The young man sounded breathless and distracted.

“Finish whatever or whoever the fuck you’re doing and go get Ian,” Sal ordered tersely.

“Does he know I’m coming?”

“What the fuck did I just say to you?” Sal snapped and hung up the phone. Now there was just the wait.

* * *

Mickey double-checked that the call had ended before he put his phone back on Ian’s night table. He sighed and pushed his damp hair back from his eyes. Ian’s temperamental radiator had been on scorching for the past few hours, leaving them sweat-soaked as they got tangled up in the sheets and each other.

“What’s up?” Ian asked as he ran his hands up the thighs of the man sitting astride him.

“Sal wants to see ya.”

“No shit?” Ian grabbed his phone off the other night stand, “shit, my phone died. Didn’t even realize.” He tossed the phone back onto the table and gripped Mickey’s hips. “So, you’re gonna come for me?” he asked, his smirk unholy.

Mickey rolled his eyes, “just because you got a monster cock doesn’t give you the right to be this corny.”

“Does that mean I can be a dick though?” Ian waggled his eyebrows and Mickey groaned painfully. Ian just grinned harder and rolled his hips, making Mickey’s breath hitch. “How soon do you have to come get me?”

“He did say I could finish whoever or whatever I was doing first.”

“Ah, well then,” Ian sat up to press his body to Mickey’s, “you should take your time.”

He nuzzled Mickey’s face, intent on a kiss, and frowned when Mickey pulled back. He tried again, only for Mickey to pull back yet again. Ian looked up, a little stung by the rejection, to see Mickey staring back at him playfully, the challenge clear in his eyes. Ian grinned and quickly fisted a hand in Mickey’s hair, moving with him as he yanked him onto his back. Mickey’s pained grunt quickly gave way to pleasure as Ian thrust hard and fast into him before pausing and settling between his legs.

“You like it when I treat you like that?” Ian asked as he loosened the fist in Mickey’s hair and gazed down at him.

“Yeah… sometimes,” Mickey answered shyly before his breath stuttered when Ian rolled his hips slowly against his.

“Do you like it when I treat you like this?” Ian asked lowly with another roll of his hips. He sucked on Mickey’s lower lip as he continued the slow, scorching pace.

Mickey felt like he was melting underneath it all—the heat of the room, the heat of Ian’s body, the burn expanding inside him. He liked it fast and hard and rough, but fuck if he didn’t love this feeling of Ian huge, hot and hard inside him, stretching and filling him and never leaving for a moment. He wrapped his legs tightly around Ian’s hips and arched up; crushing his sweat-slickened body against Ian’s and simply surrendered to the feeling.

Everything was so different here in this bubble with Ian. He wasn’t scared to show his pleasure, to let his lips part and Ian’s name tumble out like a litany. He was surprised by how quickly he was shedding his inhibitions, dropping stronger hints each time about what he liked and what he needed. He loved the way Ian anticipated those needs, or at least figured them out quickly. He loved the way Ian loved him, just slowly and thoroughly, quietly turning him out just the way Ian promised he would.

Ian licked at the notch of Mickey’s throat and almost purred when Mickey stroked the back of his head with one hand and rubbed his back with the other. He wanted to stay like this forever, locked with Mickey in this sweet heat, savouring his scent and touch and taste. He rocked faster, that familiar need overtaking his desire to go slowly. He sucked on the column of Mickey’s throat, loving the vibrations the sound of his name made there. He shuddered when he felt Mickey convulse around him as Mickey found his release and Ian came right after him, spilling deep inside Mickey before slumping on top of him.

Mickey allowed him two minutes before he was forcefully shoving Ian away. “Get off, fuck you and this goddamned sauna you call a room.”

“Heater keeps acting up. What do you expect; it’s a piece of shit apartment.”

Mickey grinned at the peeling ceiling. “I kinda like it though,” he admitted before looking over Ian. “Hey, watch it with Sal later. He sounds like he’s in one of his moods.”

Ian grunted in reply. When wasn’t Sal in one of his moods?

* * *

His anger must have peaked and ebbed a dozen times while he waited for Ian’s arrival. Now he was spiralling into rage. They should have been here by now; they should have been here ages ago. They were going to show up eventually with another paper-thin excuse and a mumbled apology and Sal was going to lose it.

Lately, Ian was as much a source of aggravation as he was a source of solace. Maybe it was in Sal’s imagination, but he didn’t like the way Ian looked at him, as if his eyes couldn’t even focus properly or he was merely looking in Sal’s general direction, but wasn’t really seeing him at all. Sal stiffened in his chair as he heard them come in. He could hear their muffled voices as they approached the door, conversing easily and taking their own sweet fucking time. They were still talking outside the door, with no apparent intention of coming in any time soon. When Sal stalked across the room and yanked the door open, he found Mickey with his hand suspended in mid-air, clearly about to knock.

“Where the fuck have you been?!” Sal snarled, his eyes locked on Ian as the redhead shot him a quick smile and slipped past him.

“We hit traffic; it’s rush hour and there’s so much slush out there,” Ian rattled off. He did his ritual of dumping his bag on the floor and shrugging off his coat and hoodie, seemingly oblivious to the angry, agitated man behind him. So he was surprised when Sal grabbed his arm and spun him around, the man gripping hard enough to bruise.

“Why the fuck was your phone off?” Sal demanded, feeling his frustration build from Ian’s lack of desired response. There had been surprise, because Sal had never put his hands on him like that before, but the surprise hadn’t given way to fear or apprehension or any such thing. Instead, there was wariness and a chilling spark of anger and Sal tried not to backpedal in the face of it.

“I went for a run, alright? Used my phone for my music and the battery drained. I just forgot to charge it,” Ian said slowly and clearly, as if dealing with a difficult child. That bit was true at least, about the phone. Only Mickey had shown up just as he had come home and he’d been completely distracted from charging the device.

He hadn’t gotten the response he needed, so Sal tried another more sure-fire tack. “When I call you, I expect you to answer. How fucking hard is it to know how to keep your fucking phone on? Are you stupid? Are you retarded? You don’t have enough fucking brain cells to rub together to know how to keep your fucking phone working?!”

“Why the fuck don’t you just back off him a little?!”

It was hard to say who was more surprised by Mickey’s outburst, Ian or Sal. Ian’s eyes went wide and Sal turned slowly to face the other man. He had been caught up in the heat of the moment with Ian and had forgotten Mickey’s presence entirely. In fact, he was baffled as to why the boy was even still here. He advanced on Mickey slowly, his head cocked to one side and disbelief etched on his face as he wondered if he’d really heard correctly.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

Surprisingly, Mickey did not back down despite coming face to face with his pissed off boss. “He went for a fucking run and his battery died. This isn’t some strange, paranormal shit, Sal. It happens to people all the time. Why you gotta be talking to him like that?! Why you gotta be so fucking loud all the time? What are you making all this noise—”

Sal cracked Mickey so hard across the face with the back of his hand that the younger man almost went to his knees.

“Sal, what the fuck?!” Ian exploded behind him.

“No!” Mickey croaked, freezing Ian just before Sal grabbed him by the coat lapels and slammed him against the wall by the still open door.

“You’re mouthing off to me? Is that what I’m hearing right now?” Sal’s voice was deceptively soft, “you trying to fucking scold me, you unbelievable little shit?!”

That was it, there it was, that feeling he had been craving the whole time; the look Sal had been searching for. The fear in those blue eyes, that respect and submission; he should have known Mickey would be the one to give him what he needed. Mickey always knew what to do, and with that Sal would feel that tight ball of ugly that always resided in his gut uncoil even just a little. He pushed further, chasing that strange high that nothing in Dre’s illicit pharmacy could ever replicate.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? What the fuck are you, talking to me like that?”

“Nobody…nothing,” Mickey’s voice was now small and subdued and Sal almost smiled in satisfaction. Mickey always knew the perfect thing to say.

Sal tossed him out the room, almost sending Mickey crashing into his own bedroom door. “You get the fuck out of my sight for the rest of the day. Don’t show your face to me unless I call you.”

Sal slammed the door shut and turned around, only to stop cold. In the heat of the moment with Mickey, he had actually managed to forget Ian’s existence. He was sharply reminded of it now though, and that precious feeling he’d just carefully leeched from Mickey was dashed in the face of Ian’s towering rage. Ian’s face was almost as red as his hair, and he somehow seemed taller and broader and more intimidating than ever. Sal swallowed and took a step back.

“What the fuck was that?!” Ian’s voice shook slightly as his hands curled into fists. Sal blinked and then tried some bravado to fight down his sudden fear and embarrassment.

“He disrespected me,” he tried to thunder, but his own voice sounded weak and pathetic in his own ears.

“He didn’t fucking disrespect you, you were acting like a fucking lunatic!”

Sal’s brow furrowed and he tried to bristle, but it was hard to cow someone who seemed so much bigger and more powerful than he could hope to be. He took a threatening step towards Ian anyway. “Who the fuck—”

Ian closed the distance between them in a second and Sal visibly quailed. “You wanna try it? Go ahead; fucking try it with someone who isn’t under orders not to hit back. I look like one of your fucking punching bags to you?” Ian almost spat with disgust and turned to gather his things.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“Home; I’m fucking done here,” Ian shrugged on his hoodie, but couldn’t wait to get outside, so he just grabbed his overcoat and bag, and headed for the door.

“You can’t leave, I just called you here. You have to—”

“Have to what? What do I have to do, Sal?” Ian snapped at him, “how about this time, you find your own dick and go fuck yourself with it?”

“Get out of my sight!” Sal yelled after him, but Ian was already gone.

* * *

The right side of Mickey’s face felt as if it was on fire. It was snowing again, the flakes raining down on him as if trying to cool down both his burning face and mind. He paced along the length of the Escalade, wearing a path into the snow as rage and humiliation worked through him like yeast and threatened to bubble over.

Stupid…why was he so stupid? What the fuck was he thinking going at Sal like that; of course he was going to get smacked down. He was supposed to know better; shit, he did know better. This was his fault. It had been so long since he’d run afoul of Sal like this. He knew how to circumnavigate Sal’s mercurial, drug-fuelled moods, he knew how to disarm him without passing his place, so why had he messed up so badly this time?

Mickey balled his hand into a fist and ground it into his forehead. Stupid…he had this coming. Fuck, he had probably been overdue for a smack down with the way everything had been going lately. He fretted about Ian, wondering if he’d just fucked up and made everything worse. He gingerly touched the side of his face and winced. He sniffed and dug the heel of his hands into his eyes. He hadn’t felt this crushed and broken down in a while and tears threatened. He fought them back, because crying like a pussy would be all he needed to complete his humiliation.

It would have been fine if Ian hadn’t been there. There was no embarrassment among Mickey and his brothers when Sal let loose on one of them, but there was rarely an audience to highlight the shame of it. He resumed his pacing, vacillating between the urge to go get Ian and the instinct to just get in his car and drive.

“Mick!”

He jumped when Ian came barrelling around to the car. “What the fuck are you doing out here? What happened?!”

Ian didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he frowned at the angry red mark covering the right side of Mickey’s face and reached out to touch it. Mickey batted his hand away and glared at him.

“What happened, Ian?!”

“I told him I was going home,” Ian said, “and I might have told him to go fuck himself,” he tacked on sheepishly.

A headache the likes of which he had never felt before descended on Mickey with a thud. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes closed to fight against the pounding in his head. “Get in the car,” he ordered, half expecting to see a furious Sal rounding the corner waving a shotgun at them. Like fuck he was sending Ian back in there, and like hell he was hanging around. He hustled a sputtering Ian into the car and quickly sped away from the property.

“Jesus, Mick, your face,” Ian breathed out. The imprint of Sal’s hand was distinct and vivid, down to the impression of Sal’s sizeable pinkie ring. The full mortification of it all came flooding back in a rush to Mickey and he flashed Ian off and his efforts to soothe him.

It was snowing heavily as they drove; thick, wet drifts making their way down and piling on Mickey’s frustration as he had to go slowly and carefully in the poor visibility. He wanted to scream. Even now he didn’t know what he was doing, if running off with Ian now was only adding fuel to an already volatile situation. When Ian reached for him again, he snapped.

“Mick, please, just let me—”

“No, get the fuck off me!” he yelled into the quiet of the car. “Going through all this shit because of you; getting the crap beat out of me, for what? Sal’s sloppy seconds? You’re not worth this shit; nothing’s worth this.” The moment it was out of his mouth he regretted it, but Mickey wasn’t about to take it back right then. He kept staring ahead; not needing to look at Ian to know the crushed look that would be on the other man’s face.

There was a stretch of heavy silence, but for the swish of the windshield wipers, until Ian spoke up. “Stop the car.”

Mickey closed his eyes briefly and wondered how his life had come to this. “Ian, just—”

“Stop the car,” Ian ordered once again, his voice growing louder. When Mickey didn’t comply, he shouted his demand. “Stop this fucking car!”

“Will you just calm down for a second?!”

Fuck it, Mickey was going slowly enough, Ian could tuck and roll. He undid his seatbelt and went for the door. When Mickey saw what he was about to do, he immediately swerved and slammed the brakes when he climbed the curb. Ian was out of the car in an instant, leaving his bag behind, but shrugging on his overcoat as he started putting distance between them. Mickey got out of the car and chased after him.

“Ian, get back in the car.”

“Fuck you!” Ian yelled over his shoulder and sped up, using his long legs to his full advantage.

“It’s turning into a fucking storm out here,” Mickey persisted from a short distance behind, “can you be reasonable about this right now? We can talk in the car. I don’t need this crazy shit right now.”

Boom, it was as if he had pressed a button somewhere, but Ian was off and running. Mickey paused, stunned into silence for a moment as Ian tore away, before he yelled his frustration into the night and ran back to the car.

Running was definitely not the smartest thing to do right now, but it was the only thing he knew to do when everything got on top of him too fast. He needed to get away from the trigger; he needed that burn in his lungs and the illusory feeling of safety and distance that running gave. He had a sinking feeling it wouldn’t work this time, worse when he heard the familiar car horn behind him. He ducked into a broad alleyway between two buildings only to eventually realize that he had run into a dead-end, with a too-tall wall behind the garbage bins. He sagged, panting, as the headlights fell on his as Mickey turned into the alley.

Mickey slipped out the car, the Escalade almost completely blocking off the entrance to the alley. He came around to the front of the car where Ian stood frozen like a deer in the headlights.

“Please get back in the car,” Mickey said.

The sound of Mickey’s voice roused Ian out of his stupor and he found himself looking around for something to throw. With nothing immediately leaping out at him, he balled up some snow and tossed it hard at Mickey’s head.

“Fuck you, alright! You think I planned any of this shit?” he bellowed and continued pelting Mickey with snowballs. He stopped after he’d expended some energy and when Mickey dropped his hands and let one smack into his face.

“I’m sorry,” Mickey huffed, “look, I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean it, fuck, I just…” Mickey wiped his hands over his face, “I’m fucking up, Ian, and my face fucking hurts. I just don’t—”

He trailed off when he felt Ian gently tugging his hands away from his face. When Mickey dropped his hands, Ian gently pressed a handful of snow against Mickey’s reddened skin and stroked the uninjured cheek with his free hand. Ian sighed as Mickey stared up at him with big, watery, blue eyes and finally rested his forehead against Mickey’s. Mickey closed his eyes and reached up to grasp Ian’s wrist.

“You’re so goddamned dramatic,” Mickey said beneath his breath.

“No more than you,” Ian pointed out.

Not as if Mickey could argue against that point at the moment. “Can we at least go back in the car? It’s coming down like a plague out here.”

Ian nodded, his forehead still pressed against Mickey’s. He pulled back and walked around the side of the car, pulling Mickey along with him. He opened the door to the back seat, shoved Mickey in and climbed in after him.

“What are you doing?” Mickey asked softly. A bit of a silly question given the clear intent stamped on Ian’s face. Mickey barely had time to shrug off his heavy coat and suit jacket before Ian was pushing him down against the seat and straddling him.  

Ian dumped his own coat over the passenger seat and leaned in to kiss Mickey, hot and demanding, as he undid Mickey’s belt and pants. Mickey’s toes curled in his shoes as the kiss deepened and he squeezed the back of Ian’s thigh and stroked his hair. The pain from the hit and the emotional upheaval ebbed away as Ian’s hand found his cock and stroked him until his body was arching off the seat.

Ian paused briefly to undo his own belt and pants. He shoved down his pants and underwear enough to free his cock from its constraints. Mickey’s eyes fastened on it and he licked his lips slowly before glancing up at Ian’s face for instruction.

“Touch me,” Ian ordered softly.

He hissed, long and low, when Mickey eagerly reached out and grasped him firmly, and rubbed his thumb over the slit of his cock. They fell into a steady rhythm, their moans and hitched breaths filling the car as the windows fogged up on the inside and the snow blanketed the outside. As their orgasms built, Ian stroked harder, bracing over Mickey as his hand pumped his leaking cock and dragged increasingly louder gasps and groans out of them both.

“Does this feel like sloppy seconds to you?” Ian panted, trying to keep it together for just a little while longer, even as Mickey’s hand blurred on his cock and Mickey panted his name. “You get it all; I give you everything. There’s nothing left when you’re done.”

“Fuck,” Mickey whimpered before coming apart while his hand stuttered on Ian’s cock and the air got knocked out of him.

It was a consuming, cathartic moment following the high drama of the day. So they could be forgiven, perhaps, for not being completely aware of their surroundings and for being ignorant of the fact that they hadn’t been alone ever since leaving Sal’s home. Across the street, seated in an old Lincoln, Jaime and Tony sat watching.

“Jesus fuck,” Tony huffed, having just witnessed Ian shoving his brother into the backseat of his brother’s car. It didn’t take a Rhodes Scholar to figure out what was happening now.

“On the side of the goddamned street after that little fucking soap opera,” Jaime sighed and ran an agitated hand over his face. “Even a strung out, fucked up clock like Sal is gonna be right twice a day.”

“Ain’t paranoia if it’s true. Fuck, Mickey, what the hell?” Tony said before turning to his brother. “You knew this was going on?”

“I suspected, wasn’t sure. I could see them being flirty and whatever…I told him to shut this shit down!”

“Well that obviously worked,” Tony said dryly and looked over once again at the still, dark Escalade. “What the fuck are we gonna do?”

“What the fuck else can we do?!”

“Shit, Jay, it’s Mickey though!” Tony said.

“You got a better idea? Fuck, you have any other ideas at all? Because I’m all fucking ears over here,” Jaime said irritably. “Fuck him for putting us in this goddamned position. He’s supposed to be the smart one!”

Tony sighed and patted his pockets. “We gonna do this now?”

“You really want to roll up on that shit? Fuck no,” Jaime shook his head, “let them have the night. Tomorrow, me and Joey will take care of Mickey; you and Iggy deal with the whore.”

Tony sighed and nodded. God-fucking-damn it.

* * *

It was bitterly cold the next day and Ian danced around at the bus stop outside of work, waiting for Alex to arrive. He was surprised when a dark car stopped at his feet. The tinted window rolled down to reveal Iggy grinning at him and Tony in the driver’s seat.

“Hey guys,” Ian greeted, a little confused as to what they were doing here. Sal knew he had work and coupled with how things had gone down the night before, he doubted the man was ready to see him yet. He certainly wasn’t ready to see Sal.

“What are you doing out here, man? It’s cold as balls. Hop in, we’ll take you home,” Iggy said.

Ian shook his head, “thanks, but I’m alright. Actually waiting on someone.”

There was an odd moment as Iggy regarded him quietly and an alarm bell went off in the back if Ian’s head. He shifted uncomfortably as Iggy seemed confused about what to do next, and when Iggy looked over at a blank faced Tony, Ian knew for sure something was wrong.

“Ian, maybe you should get in the car,” Iggy said and Ian took a step back.

“Don’t you run, fucker,” Tony said, but he might as well have saved his breath. Ian was gone, just tearing across the parking lot.

“Fuck!” Iggy yelled as he struggled out of the car and took off after him. Tony snorted his annoyance and peeled off.

Ian could hear Iggy yelling behind him for him to stop. He didn’t dare look back. He slipped a little on the patches of black ice but managed to stay upright and keep well ahead. He didn’t know where he was running to, he just knew he needed to get off the main roads, but he hesitated to turn into any deserted places. It was hard to think, but he wondered just how badly they wanted to get their hands on him. He wasn’t far from a commercial area; would they chase him into stores, would they chance it?

He had been focused on Iggy screaming behind him, positive that he had lost Tony in the car at some point. The last thing he expected was Tony screeching out of a side road and almost crashing the car into the fence directly in front of him. He slammed into the side of the car and wound up rolling across the hood to the other side. The wind was knocked out of him, but he struggled to get to his feet only to find that Tony was already there. A hard boot to the mid-section made sure he stayed down.

“No more running,” Tony warned as he loomed over him. Nothing more was said as Tony’s presence kept Ian pinned down while they waited for Iggy. A few minutes later, the other Milkovich brother came huffing and puffing up to them.

“Nice of you to join us, Usain,” Tony rolled his eyes as Iggy doubled over panting.

“He’s so fast,” Iggy wheezed, “he’s the fastest fucker alive.”

Tony simply grunted and hauled Ian to his feet. He checked the area before taking Ian’s coat, bag and phone and handing them to Iggy and in the next moment, Ian was being dumped in the chilly trunk of the car.

Ian shivered as the car sped towards its destination. His brain swam with the possibilities of the why and how of what was about to happen. His thoughts settled on Mickey and the panic quickly set in. By the time the car came to a stop and he was being dragged out into the shock of the cold, it was the only thing he could gasp out.

“Where’s Mickey?!”

A strange look ghosted across the brothers’ faces and Ian’s heart sank into his sneakers.

“He’s being taken care of.”

* * *

Mickey groaned in frustration when the door to the basement opened. He was in the middle of counting the cash of that week’s collection and the interruption derailed his thoughts. He looked up at his brothers as Jaime and Joey descended the stairs.

“It’s about time somebody showed up. Which one of you is gonna help me with this shit?”

Any further thought was cut off by Jaime kicking the chair out from under Mickey, sending the man crashing to the floor. Before Mickey could so much as sputter, Jaime used a gloved hand to grasp the collar of Mickey’s button down shirt and was then dragging him bodily along the floor, down the corridor to the rear of the basement. Joey tagged behind, watching fretfully as Jaime dragged a raging, incoherent Mickey to the small room at the back. Jaime opened the door and tossed Mickey across the tarp-covered floor of the bare room and closed the door behind them, leaving Joey to stand guard outside.

Mickey scrambled to his feet, dishevelled, confused and enraged. He whirled on his brother, fighting mad, and was stopped cold by the press of steel against his forehead. Mickey froze, his whole body going quiet, and he looked beyond the gun to look his brother in the eye.

“Jaime, what the fuck?” he asked quietly, still careful not to make any sudden moves. Jaime then said the two words that almost robbed Mickey of his strength and sent him to his knees.

“Sal knows.”

* * *

Ian didn’t know if he was shaking so badly from the cold or the fear. Iggy was hanging back, but wouldn’t talk to him and could barely look at him while Tony was just cool, blank and methodical. He pushed himself backwards against the stack of metal containers, ignoring the bite of the cold against his back.  

“Why are you doing this?!” he appealed to Tony as the man came to stand in front of him.

Tony frowned at him and sighed, “you know why.”

He did, of course he did. “Where’s Mickey? What are you doing to him?!”

That cryptic, uncomfortable look ghosted once more across the brothers’ features and the two Milkoviches exchanged a glance. Ian could feel his panic trying to claw its way out of him.

“You can’t; he’s your brother,” Ian said desperately, “none of this is his fault,” he panted. His eyes were wild as they moved back and forth between the brothers, none of his words apparently penetrating. “I forced him!”

“Jesus, save it. You think we don’t blame you for this shit? We do, so you can stop the mea culpas, because they’re not gonna do shit for you, Mickey or anybody right now,” Tony tugged on his gloves before flexing his hands into fists. “I’m not going to kill you though, if you’re worried about that. I have very specific orders to make sure you survive.”

Ian blinked up at him, confused, and not the least bit reassured. “What are you going to do?”

Tony dug into his pockets and produced a wicked looking switchblade. It was long and thin with a black handle, and its sharpness was evident even from where Ian was sitting, huddled on the ground.

Tony shrugged nonchalantly, “I’m gonna rip your fucking face off.”

* * *

Mickey’s heart was thundering in his ears as his brother kept the gun trained on his head. He was still struggling to regain the power of speech and his brain spun dizzyingly before it settled on Ian.

“Ian?!”

Jaime sighed heavily, “what the fuck does that matter now?”

Mickey licked his lips. His whole mouth was dry. “Let me talk to Sal. I’ll apologize, I can make him understand; I’ll get him to change his mind.”

“I can’t do that, Mick.”

Mick took a sharp, shaky breath. Every gear in his head was spinning and nothing was happening. “What’s happening to Ian?”

“That’s all you’re worried about right now? You got nothing else to say?” Jaime asked, “Ian’s not going to be fine, but he’s the one that’s going to get to live. If you ask me, that’s the real bitch of it all,” Jaime said before he raised the gun a hair higher and fired.

* * *

Tony gripped Ian by the throat and lifted him easily, not even stopping when Ian was fully upright, but lifting until only the tips of Ian’s toes only brushed the ground. Ian grasped at Tony’s hand desperately, fighting the crushing pressure on his neck while struggling to keep sight of the blade.

“Jesus, Tony…” Iggy whined behind his brother, already looking and sounding nauseated.

A flash of annoyance and exasperation flashed across the older brother’s features. “If you’re going to be a fucking pussy about this then you need to not be here right now. Go fuck off somewhere else and don’t be getting sick and distracting me! Should be used to this shit already instead of acting like a little bitch.”

Iggy fell silent and stared away glumly but didn’t move. Tony looked up at Ian with a slight tilt to his head and an assessing eye, like an artist trying to figure out how to move next.

“You ever heard of this shit called a Glasgow smile, Red? I’ve been thinking about it, you know, like a signature? You got to be so fucking careful if you want it done right,” Tony raised the blade to the corner of Ian’s mouth, “gotta make the cuts at the mouth just right, don’t want them too shallow but you don’t want to saw a fucker’s head off either. Gotta make sure the muscles can contract and make that pretty smile. You know what I’m talking about, right? You saw _the Dark Knight_? The Joker in that had a Glasgow smile. Such a good fucking movie. What do you think, Red? Think you could make a good Joker?” Tony pressed the blade into the corner and Ian could immediately taste a thin stream of blood.

“Tony, come on, that’s enough; he gets it,” Iggy said plaintively.

Tony heaved a sigh and abruptly dropped Ian, coughing and shaking, to the ground. He pinned his brother with a glare as Iggy sheepishly came over to hand Ian his coat.

“Look, Red, you get one warning and this is it,” Tony began, “Sal knows you’re fucking around, he just doesn’t know with who yet.” Tony snorted when Ian looked up at him with wide eyes, “don’t look so surprised. No one is that stupid. You think Sal saw you onstage grinding on dudes while wearing fucking short-shorts and thought you were going to be some kind of bastion of virtue and fidelity? He expects you to fuck around and when he finds out, he’ll bring the pain and try to whip you back into line. That’s what he does.”

Tony stepped closer and knelt before Ian who squirmed away from him. “That’s what you need to understand. You and Mickey, I know you think you’re coming into this with equal risk and it’s all romantic and hot and you’re in this together, but it doesn’t work that way. Shit might get ugly, you—” Tony lifted the knife and pointed it at Ian’s ashen face, “—might get ugly, but you’ll get to live. Mickey’s not gonna be that lucky. You see what I’m saying?”

“Is he okay?” Ian whispered hoarsely.

“You thought we’d kill our own brother? We’re animals, but we’re not that breed. But there are more than enough people out there to do it at Sal’s request,” Tony said and then shook his head. “What is this hold you have over Mick and Sal, I’ll never know. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you have a great face, congratulations on it, but the reason for obsession escapes me. You shoot bourbon out your dick or something?” Tony sighed and straightened up, “well whatever it is, it’s not worth my brother’s life, and I’ll fucking kill you long before it gets that far.”

Tony pocketed his blade, neatened his clothes and headed back to the car without another word, leaving Iggy standing awkwardly next to a still grounded Ian. Iggy handed back Ian’s phone and bag, all the while shifting from foot to foot.

“You, uh, want a ride back into the city?” Iggy asked and cringed a little under Ian’s incredulous look, “yeah, guess not. Look, man, it’s better this way. Sal’s fucking crazy and Mick…we gotta look out for him any way we can. He looks out for us, you know? Sorry…” Iggy hurriedly walked off and it was long after the sound of the engine had receded that Ian found the strength to stand.

* * *

Mickey had squeezed his eyes shut when the gun went off. Then for a moment there was nothing. He slowly opened his eyes to see his brother unloading the blanks from his gun. Mickey slowly lowered his arms and straightened up, confusion buzzing through him.

“The fuck?”

Jaime raised a cartridge, “blanks,” he said simply, “we decided to go for shock and awe.”

Mickey looked at his brother as if he was growing a second head.

“Sal thinks Gallagher is fucking around and figures you might be covering for him because you guys seem to be friends now. Given the current state of affairs, pardon the pun, we decided we had to find a big way to make a point,” Jaime’s voice was low and subdued as he saw the colour rising into Mickey’s face.

“This was a fucking—” Mickey paused, cleared his throat and tried again, “you were making a point?”

“We saw you, you and him, having your little soap opera right in there in the middle of the goddamned road. Supposed someone else had seen you, Mick?”

Mickey chewed on his lower lip and tried to keep from exploding. “Where’s Ian?”

“Tony’s got him.”

That’s all Mickey needed to hear before he shoved past Jaime and stormed to the door. Mickey banged on the locked door for Joey to open it. “You let me out of this motherfucker!”

Joey tentatively opened it, only to nearly get bowled over as Mickey barrelled through it with Jaime close at his heels.

“Mick, we did this for your own good. You need to shut this shit down for real!”

Mickey snatched his phone off the table from the piles of cash and dialled Ian frantically. It rang without answer. He sent his brothers a baleful glare, “dead to me,” he snarled before heading for the stairs.

“Sal had Jimmy Accardo whacked yesterday,” Jaime’s words froze Mickey on the steps. “He thought Jimmy was slipping information about him to Big Tony. Jimmy was good people, Mick; he wasn’t saying shit to Tony or anybody. Sal had a made dude whacked because he’s paranoid as fuck lately and is seeing the Bogeyman around every goddamned corner. He had a loyal, fucking made dude disappear. What the fuck you think he’ll do to you? What we just did, it ain’t nothing on what he would do. You can’t do this shit now, Mick.”

Mickey stood on the stairs for god knows how long just hearing the sound of his own harsh breathing and his heart thudding in his chest. He eventually shook himself and headed up the stairs, leaving his brothers behind and slamming the basement door as he did so.

He had to find Ian.

* * *

Ian was on the bus by the time Mickey got through to him. Ian had felt the constant buzzing, but had been too scared to answer, wondering if the brothers had been trying to trap him into messing up. He couldn’t resist any longer. He tentatively answered and put the phone to his ear.

“Mick?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ian!” The palpable relief that flooded Mickey’s voice swarmed him too and brought a burn to the back of his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Are you okay?”

Mickey ignored the question. “Where are you? What the fuck did they do? Where are you?! Let me come get you.”

“I’m fine, Mick. I’m on my way home. I’m fine, I just…I just need a minute.”

Mickey was silent for a minute. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah…yeah.”

When Ian got home, he dazedly wandered into the bathroom and cleaned the small cut at the corner of his mouth.  He then stripped off his clothes, crawled into bed beneath the covers and stayed there for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

_“You’re not worth this shit…”_

Ian stirred at the sound of his phone ringing. He must have fretted himself to sleep, because the deep darkness of his room surprised him. He searched for his phone from beneath the covers and answered when he saw it was Mickey calling.

“Hey,” he answered.

“Hey,” Mickey responded softly, “you okay?”

“Yeah,” Ian sniffed and rubbed tiredly at his face, “you?”

“I’m downstairs in the car…”

Ian blinked and quickly rolled out of bed to look out the window. The Mustang sat parked across the street.

“Should I come up or do you wanna come down for a little bit?”

Ian was already half-dressed as he tumbled out the door.

Their eyes never left each other the moment Ian emerged from the building. Ian hunched over against the cold and crossed the street, and slipped quickly into the passenger seat of Mickey’s car. They raked each other’s face, looking for signs of injury and Mickey reached to gingerly stroke beneath the cut at the corner of Ian’s mouth.

“Fucking Tony,” Mickey muttered darkly, “I’m going to kill him.”

Ian snorted and grabbed Mickey’s hand, and rubbed it soothingly between his own. “Trust me, it’s nothing. It was kind of like a high school play. Don’t declare war on your brothers, they have you outnumbered,” he joked lamely, but Mickey’s eyes remained dark and serious.

“I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you, Ian; not my brothers, not Sal, not anybody.”

Ian nodded and stared down at Mickey’s hand clasped between his own. It felt weird how huge his hands looked in comparison and his heart constricted painfully.

_“It’s not worth my brother’s life…”_

Ian thought he had understood the danger of it, that the risks had been clear. The truth of it, he realized, was that until this moment, it was never actually real to him. Nothing had really existed outside the bubble he and Mickey had created, and they had both managed to unconsciously diminish the very real dangers.

“What about you?” Ian asked, “would your brothers…?”

“Hurt me?” Mickey filled in the blanks as he watched Ian carefully, “no, they never would.”

“But you Milkoviches aren’t the only ones taking orders from Sal, are you?” Ian slowly released Mickey’s hand. He balled his fists in his lap and stared out at the road before them, stretching out into the night.

“Ian…”

“I don’t think we should do this anymore, Mickey,” Ian said with quiet finality. Then there was nothing but silence as they both sat in the car and stared out ahead of them for what felt like forever.

“Yeah, okay,” Mickey said at last, sounding resigned and muted.

He didn’t try to stop Ian a moment later when the man slipped out the car as quietly as he had come in. Not that he left after Ian went back inside. He sat in his car, staring up at Ian’s window as he chain-smoked, watching the shift of the curtains and knowing that Ian was up there staring back down at him.

Ian couldn’t move away from the window even if he wanted to. He stood behind the curtains, straining to see Mickey and waiting for the other man to drive off and break the spell. He could never imagine just how much it would hurt though when the car finally pulled away from the curb.

* * *

Mickey’s brothers had wisely cleared out by the time he got home. He grabbed a six pack from the kitchen and made his way back to the living room. He flung himself down onto the couch and popped open his first can of medicine. He had only started on the second can when he realized he wasn’t alone after all. He didn’t look up as Sal made his way down the stairs and came over to him.

Sal watched him for a moment, “you okay?”

Mickey gave a single nod and kept his eyes downcast. Sal waffled awkwardly before taking a seat next to the brooding young man. He peered at Mickey more closely, “what happened? That girl you were seeing finally break your heart?”

Mickey flinched and snorted, “something like that.”

“Ain’t that just like a woman?” Sal sighed, “but you know what they say, plenty of fish in the sea.” Sal nudged him, “I’ve got something for ya.” Sal handed him a small jewellery box and Mickey opened it to find a pair of diamond cufflinks. “I lost my shit yesterday,” Sal said lightly, by way of explanation. “You know you gotta give me a wide berth after I go to one of those fucking meet-ups; always leaves me fucked me up. But those are beautiful, right?” Sal nudged him again, oblivious to Mickey’s stony silence, “you’re gonna look fucking sharp in those.”

Sal rubbed Mickey’s hair and struggled to his feet, his task done. “I’m heading upstairs; think I’ll stay here tonight. If I slept in the same house as that frigid bitch, I’d probably get frostbite!” Sal climbed the stairs, laughing at his own joke and Mickey was left alone again.

Mickey tossed the box onto the table, grabbed his keys and was soon out the door.

* * *

Alex struggled to keep up as she watched Martha Stewart whip up a storm on her tablet. Martha looked breezy and immaculate as she cheerfully tossed out instructions, while Alex was covered in flour and her blond hair was plastered to her forehead. She really needed to learn how to tamp down these sudden domestic urges of hers.

“Oh, and I almost forgot, add a dash of cardamom to help enhance the flavour!” Martha chirped cheerfully, “it’s a good thing!”

“Well damn, Martha! How about you warn a bitch before you fuck up her shit! Where the fuck am I supposed to get cardamom at midnight? Out my ass?!”

Alex jumped at the sound of knocking at her door. She paused the video and listened again and there came the knocking once more. She grabbed a baseball bat and stalked to the door. She might be in a nice North side neighbourhood, but one could never be sure. She peeked through the peephole and familiar red hair loomed up at her. She blinked and quickly opened the door.

“Ian?!”

“Hey,” Ian gave her a weak smile, “I was in the neighbourhood.”

A likely story, she was sure. Ian’s near Southside college town wasn’t exactly a stone’s throw from her gilded cage in the upscale neighbourhood. She leaned the bat against the door, put her hands on her hips and stared hard at her friend.

“What’s going on?” she asked sternly and watched in horror as Ian’s façade dropped and his face crumpled, “oh no, what’s happening?!” she squeaked and quickly hustled him inside.

* * *

Dre’s eyes popped open at the sound of shuffling outside his door. He pulled out his Glock from beneath his pillow and silently rolled out of bed. He could still hear the shuffling as he edged towards the door, careful to stay as much to the side as possible. He paused, surprised, when there was a hesitant knock. He still approached carefully and peeked through the peephole. Familiar gelled hair loomed up at him.

“Mickey, what the fuck?!” he hissed at his visitor after he opened the door. It was far outside the norm for Mickey to simply show up without adequate warning and Dre stared at the man expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

Mickey’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly before his eyes fell on the gun in Dre’s hand. “Shit, I should have called first. I didn’t mean to freak you out, shit.”

Dre raised an eyebrow and cocked his head, completely confused. “You cool?” he asked carefully.

Mickey snorted and nodded, lifting his shirt to show there was no wire. “I was just wondering if I could maybe crash here tonight. I can’t be at my place right now and I didn’t know where else I could go… fuck, you know what, forget it, I shouldn’t have come.” Mickey turned to walk away only to be grabbed by the back of the neck and hauled into Dre’s apartment.

“Get your dumbass in here, fool!” Dre ordered and stuck his head out once more to sweep the passageway before he pulled back and locked the door.

* * *

In her quaint apartment in the North side, Alex stroked her best friend’s hair and listened as he talked himself hoarse about being chased and threatened and about the subsequent break up with Mickey. She hugged him close, murmuring much needed sympathies as Ian dredged up the traumas of the past day.

In Dre’s apartment, deep in the Southside, Mickey offered no explanations for his odd behaviour and Dre didn’t ask for any. Instead, he set a six pack of beer between them and sat silently with his friend. A myriad of emotions flickered across Mickey’s face as the man slowly processed everything that had happened.

But in the end it was all the same. When Ian had run out of things to say and Mickey’s throat felt far too tight to swallow, their respective friend had simply gathered them up and tucked them into bed. They then killed the lights, plunging their apartments into darkness, and laid next to them, silently offering their support as they let two heartbroken boys cry.


	15. Fall Out Boys

“Wake the fuck up!”

Ian groaned loudly as Alex bounced hard on her bed, jerking him awake. She gleefully repeated her homage to his alarm clock while he grumbled beneath his breath and rolled onto his back. His glare at her was sleepy and harassed, and he simply rolled over again and covered his head with one of her pillows.

“Still sleeping!” he protested.

She dropped to her knees, straddled his hip and bounced around while she grabbed at the pillow covering his head. “Wake up, asshole! It’s almost eleven. Your breakfast is getting cold,” she informed him after she finally managed to wrestle the pillow away and swat him a few times.

“It’s Sunday; no school, no work, I can sleep in,” he protested and reached for another of Alex’s numerous pillows to hide under.

Alex sighed and rolled off to lie next to her friend. She pushed away his pillow and this time he didn’t protest, but simply stared back at her, looking as tired and sad as a boy could look.

“I know you want to stay in bed all day and just be sad, but you and I both know why that’s not a good idea.”

Ian sighed, “I just need a little while longer.”

“Yeah, I know, but then it will be two o’clock, and then it will be seven. Then the day will be over and you might as well just stay in bed because it’s nightfall already, then the next thing you know, you can’t face the sunlight at all,” she said and scratched his cheek gently. “Your heart’s broken and you’re allowed to be sad and mope around for as long as you need to, but don’t do it lying down. Be sad but keep it moving.” She then began shoving at him until Ian groaned in defeat and shuffled off the bed.

He freshened up in her bathroom and then wandered out to her dining area. The small table had been set and there were bacon and eggs, toast and some kind of loaf cake. He slid into the chair across from hers and poured out some coffee. He took a sip and eyed the fare sceptically.

“Eat,” she ordered as she cut into the loaf cake. “You know what happens when you take your pills on an empty stomach and I am not dealing with that shit today—pun unintended. I woke up and finished making the vanilla nut bread I had started last night. Here, try it!”

Ian hesitantly broke a small piece of the slice she had dumped on his plate and chewed. Ian tried to be as diplomatic as possible, but cooking was not Alex’s forte. It was as far from her forte as she could possibly get. The nut bread tasted like sweetened sand that was being held together by strong molecular forces. Ian tried to keep his face even as he reached for the orange juice to gulp it, and Alex sighed.

“It’s because I left out the cardamom, wasn’t it?”

Ian wasn’t sure what cardamom was, but he was fairly certain this abomination wasn’t its fault. Even now he was fretting about the rubbery look of those eggs. Things went haywire once Alex attempted anything above a simple tuna sandwich. Ian couldn’t help but notice that Alex hadn’t even attempted her cake, but had been simply waiting to see how he would respond to it, the user.

“Your phone has been blowing up all morning, by the way,” she told him and went to retrieve his phone for him. She smiled at him apologetically when she saw the eager, hopeful look on his face. “Sorry, not Mickey.”

He was crestfallen and his mood wasn’t about to improve when he saw that Sal had been calling him nonstop since dawn. Ian snorted and tossed his phone on the table. “He can go get fucked.”

Alex took a bite of toast and looked at him nervously. “You’re going to have to deal with him eventually. Are you done with him?”

Ian sighed and rubbed both hands over his face. “Ugh, I wish, but how can I be done with him?”

Alex had no arguments there. After the tale Ian told her last night, she had been properly terrified of Sal and his minions. She didn’t want someone that volatile going off on Ian. “I understand; I’m all for the gentle extraction method now. If I were you, I’d want to hang on to that face for as long as humanly possible too.”

Ian blinked at her, slightly confused. “Hmm?”

“I mean, you have to be careful about getting rid of him, Ian. You have to figure out how to get out from under him as quickly as possible without him going all Stanley Kowalski on you.”

“I’m not leaving without Mickey.”

Alex gaped at him.

“Maybe I could probably dump Sal without getting carved up, I don’t know, but if I left now, I know Mickey wouldn’t come with me, and I’m not leaving him with fucking Sal.”

Alex didn’t know where to even begin with this. “Ian, I know you care about Mickey, but he’s been in a fucked up, deeply involved relationship with a psychopath for well over a decade. You can’t exactly just swoop in and Captain-save-a-ho this situation.”

“Alex!”

“Sorry, would you prefer ‘White Knight’? Of course you would. You can’t just swoop in and White Knight this situation, Ian. Secure your own oxygen mask before assisting others!” Even as she spoke, she could tell that Ian was absorbing none of it. She sighed when he shook his head and stared determinedly out the sunny window by the table.

“I leave now and I’ll lose him completely and he’ll just get sucked in further. Sal’s going to destroy him and I’ll be fucked if I let that happen.”

“So what, are you going to hypnotize him with your magic stick and hope he follows you out in a trance, or are you seriously trying to heal with the power of love?” she asked, her sarcasm dripping from her voice. Ian rolled his eyes and shoved away from the table in a huff, but Alex was unapologetic. “You dudes think you can just wave your dick at people and it’s going to cure all their problems. Well you can’t, Ian! I don’t care how pretty your penis is! So maybe work on your priorities a little?!” She broke off a bit of her vanilla nut bread, popped it in her mouth and immediately gagged. Martha Stewart had so much to answer for.

* * *

Mickey couldn’t stay in bed even if he wanted to. Dre turned a simple act of making breakfast into a jam session and pounding, bass heavy music filled the space. Mickey sat in a chair, moodily flicking through the photos of Ian in the protected folder in his phone while Dre bounced, swayed, and pelvic thrust his way around the kitchen. Mickey glanced over at him briefly before returning his attention to one of Ian’s sunset selfies. It was a sad day indeed when he couldn’t even appreciate Dre’s gyrations.

“That song makes no goddamned sense!” he informed Dre testily, “none of his music is any fucking good if you ask me.”

“Nobody asked you, honky!” Dre shot back, but turned the music down in deference to Mickey’s mood. There was some semblance of quiet for the moment, but for the clinks and scrapes as Dre got the food ready. At length, he asked Mickey a pertinent question, “so who’s Ian?”

Mickey jolted a bit and blinked at the question. “What?”

“You can’t go to sleep all types of fucked up and not babble a little bit,” Dre said, “you said his name a couple times. He the dude you’ve been messing with?”

Mickey plucked at the knees of his jeans and his eyes went back to Ian’s picture. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly, “for a minute.”

“Ah, okay,” Dre nodded and began plating up the food. “You see I ask because I’m remembering that back when you were in lockup and Iggy was filling the prescriptions, I could have sworn he said something about Sal getting a shiny, new side-piece. Pretty sure his name was Ian too,” Dre looked over his shoulder as he spoke and Mickey’s subsequent silence and downcast eyes immediately spoke volumes. “Shit, Mickey, man, that’s grimy as hell.”

“It wasn’t…it wasn’t even like that,” Mickey sighed heavily.

“Yeah, I can imagine it wasn’t,” Dre said after a while and shook his head, “so y’all broke up then?”

“Yeah, it was stupid, so we stopped,” Mickey said and it was clear that was all Dre was getting out of him for the moment. Before Dre could bring him his food, Mickey’s phone went off and Mickey snorted. “Sal wants a few more party packs,” Mickey said and slid out of the chair to find his shoes and jacket.

Dre’s phone went off on cue and he nodded at the request from Sal. He got the packs ready and handed them over, all the while eyeing Mickey with evident concern and curiosity. “You don’t wanna eat?”

“Nah, I gotta get back—see what’s going on.”

“Yeah, alright, but look, me and Drew are gonna make a run down to San Antonio in a couple days; wouldn’t hurt to have a white boy tagging along, if you get my drift. You’d be doing me a favour.”

Mickey saw the offer for what it was and it might not be the worst idea to get out of town for a bit and clear his head. He nodded and shrugged on his coat. “I’ll let you know.”

* * *

Dr. Lester watched silently as Ian turned over the lump of play dough in his hand. He hadn’t spoken since greeting her as he came in and she waited to see if he would bring up what was bothering him on his own. It soon became clear that this was a vain hope.

“Your joy is gone,” she said. She smiled softly when Ian finally looked up at her, at sea. She clasped her hands and rested her chin on them. “These past few weeks, you’ve been noticeably happier, dare I say ebullient? It was really great to see,” she said and then waved a hand before her face, “but now that light seems to have dimmed a bit. What’s going on?”

Ian hesitated and shifted uncomfortably on his couch, “I met a boy.”

“A boy?” Dr. Lester repeated, her voice climbing a little in surprise. Ian had to grin at her shock.

“Yeah, crazily age appropriate. He’s twenty-two and he’s hot and he’s sweet and he drives a Mustang.”

Dr. Lester couldn’t help her own smile as she was utterly charmed by Ian’s goofy smile and wide-eyed description. She had never heard him describe any of his sexual or romantic interests with that kind of ease and eagerness. Usually his descriptions were automatically defensive, knowing the criticisms that would follow over age discrepancies or power imbalance. This felt like such a huge difference and a monumental breath of fresh air.

“What’s his name?”

“Mickey,” he sighed sweetly and smiled at his hands. He then looked up at her and she could see the discomfort there. “He, um, works for Sal.”

“And I take it you haven’t cut ties with Sal as yet?”

“No,” Ian admitted.

Dr. Lester sighed. Ian was already becoming reticent with information and he had just barely begun sharing.  She prompted him, “but you still became involved with Mickey?”

“It just kind of happened. I mean, I might have pushed it a bit, but it was just so intense, you know? We sort of lost control of everything,” Ian said. “I had to end it,” he confessed, “because it was getting crazy and if Sal found out…I don’t want him getting hurt.”

Dr. Lester leaned back in her chair, her brow furrowed as she sorted through Ian’s short blast of babble. “You know, whenever you speak about Sal, you use certain words and phrases that never cease to alarm me, Ian. What exactly does Sal do, and in what capacity does Mickey work for him? How would Sal hurt him?”

Ian stayed mum for the moment and knocked his knees together in agitation as he weighed how much he should tell her and what her reaction might be. “Sal’s in the Outfit,” he confessed at length, “he’s a Capo in the North side. Mickey’s one of his soldiers, but he’s been with Sal since he was a kid. Sal treats him like crap all the time and—”

“The Oufit…as in the Mafia Outfit?!” she interrupted, “Sal isn’t a garage owner, he’s a Capo, what?!” her voice climbed as her shock set in. She clapped a hand on top of her messy hair and slowly slid it down her face before she pinned Ian with a stare. Her speech was scattered and rapid fire, the way it always was when she became agitated. “Ian, what is this, what is happening, what are you doing?”

Ian said nothing, only stared up at her from beneath his lashes with a hangdog expression. She stared helplessly around her office; as if an answer or explanation would leap out at her from somewhere while her thoughts ping-ponged around in her head.

“I thought you were maintaining, that you were moving beyond this sort of high risk behaviour,” she seemed as if she was addressing Ian whilst talking to herself out loud, “perhaps a reassessment? Now that I understand the context… Ian, none of this—Sal, Mickey, any of it—is exhibiting sound decision making, and could be symptomatic—”

“Please don’t do that,” Ian broke in quietly and the doctor trailed off, “please don’t put that thought in my head. He’s not a symptom,” Ian’s leg bounced as he squeezed the play dough between his fingers. “I’ve been doing everything you’ve told me. I’ve been taking all my pills, I keep to my routine, I reach out when things get on top of me, I do everything that I’m supposed to and I’ve been doing so well,” Ian’s voice broke and he took a moment  to try and collect himself. “I was happy because I met someone and I fell in love and it was amazing, but it’s over now it’s over and I’m sad. I’m not allowed to feel shit anymore? I’m bipolar so I’m just supposed to be numb all the time? I’ll admit I’ve been fucking up with this, but I wasn’t ‘engaging in high risk behaviour.’ It wasn’t like that. I finally saw how risky everything was, so I stopped it for his sake and mine. That’s a good decision, right? I already broke up with him; don’t take him away from me again. Don’t make me think it wasn’t real.”

Dr. Lester was at a loss. “I’m sorry,” she said at length, “I wasn’t trying to devalue or dismiss your relationship. I raced ahead without proper analysis first and I—” she paused and sighed, “of course I want you to have and experience all your emotions, Ian; I was just shocked. This is such a dangerous situation to be in though and while I understand you have complicated feelings for Sal—”

“No, not that complicated. I’ve been over him for a while now.”

“You have?!”

“Yeah, but I was, um, made to understand he doesn’t take rejection very well and that I should just wait for him to dump me instead.”

His doctor wondered if this was what the beginnings of a stroke felt like. “Do you feel as if you are in imminent danger, Ian?”

“From Sal? No,” he hedged and decided learning about Mickey’s brothers and their methods might be a bit too much for Dr. Lester for one session, “if Sal’s a danger to anyone, it’s Mickey. Sal’s had him since he was eight and it’s so fucked up and I just want to get him out.”

“You don’t think Sal’s a danger to you, but you feel he’s a threat to Mickey?” she asked slowly.

Ian expelled a huff of frustration. He had already had this fight with Alex and he had no patience for it now. “I’m going to help him.”

“How?” she asked pointedly and Ian’s brow furrowed. He didn’t have an answer for that yet.

“I don’t know, okay, but I’ll figure it out. I just need some time.”

“Ian, I can’t think of a single instance I would recommend that anyone stay with an abuser, no matter how noble their motive may be.”

“Sal’s not abusing me though!”

“Are you sure? Abusers can be manipulative and insidious. They may start off seeming so normal, then maybe a little controlling and weird and the next thing you know, you’re in an abusive relationship, completely bewildered as to how you got there.”

“I can handle Sal,” Ian insisted, staring at Dr. Lester defiantly. And he was going to save Mickey. He didn’t care what anyone else had to say about it.

* * *

“So is it true?”

Alex paused in her price tagging to look over at Ernesto, who had been watching her closely as he stocked the canned goods.

“Is what true?”

“Nate and the other guys say you’re really a dude. Is that for real?”

Alex chewed on her inner cheek and resumed tagging. “Do I look like a dude?”

Ernesto stared harder, making her skin crawl. “I don’t know, I mean Kevin says you’re a trap and all, and your hands and feet are kinda huge.”

Alex closed her eyes briefly and tried to count to ten. She decided to simply ignore him as best she could and continue her work. Yet he continued talking and the barb about her hands and feet had penetrated. She shuffled her feet self-consciously and stared at her hand that held the price tag gun. It had been a few days since she had obsessed about her hands and feet—today had been all about her jaw line—but she knew they would occupy her thoughts until something else came along to dislodge them.

“I think it’s true,” Ernest said, frowning at her as if she had betrayed him somehow, “I kinda see it now, in some of the things you do.”

_“What things?!”_ she wanted to scream at him, but she wasn’t about to give any of them the satisfaction. Nate, Kevin and the rest of the Asshole Patrol probably gave him a list of shit to say to wind her up. She steadfastly ignored him but by then he had abandoned his stocking duties to fix her with his unsettling gaze.

“It’s kind of a shame, you know? I kinda thought you were really hot at first, but I ain’t no fag, you know?”

“Yeah good for you, superstar,” Alex snarked, “and your disgraceful use of the double negative suggests otherwise,” she said before feeling alarm bells go off as he approached her, crowding her space. Her hand closed on a can of soup and the image and temptation of smashing it hard into his temple filled her head.

“It’s so fucking weird though, like I keep thinking about it. What does it look like down there?” his eyes swept down the length of her body, “Kevin thinks it’s probably like a total freak show, like some Cirque du Soleil shit. It’s not that bad, right? I wanna know. How about you show me?”

“I’m curious about your dick too, Ernie,” Ian’s voice made the other man jump in fright. He spun around to find Ian towering over him. “Rumour has it that you have a difficult one that can only come out and work under specific circumstances, like sexually harassing women when they’re trying to work.”

Ernesto backed away, but Ian kept advancing on him. “I wasn’t harassing nobody, we was just talking!”

“Oh that’s how you talk? Why don’t you and I go have a talk out back then? I’ll talk to you as long and hard as you need me to.”

“Yo fuck off, man,” Ernesto snapped before turning away and exiting the aisle quickly.

Ian snorted and headed back to Alex. He gently loosened her grip on the can of soup and put it back on the shelf. “He’s so not worth a can of Campbell’s Chunky.”

Alex took a deep breath and tried to discharge the negative feelings. “I’ll reach for the Progresso Light next time,” she joked and shook off Ian’s concerned look. “You’re here early.”

“Didn’t feel like hanging out on campus. I came straight here from class.”

“How was your session with Dr. Lester this morning?”

“I’m pretty confident you’re well on your way to becoming a licensed mental healthcare professional, because the two of you sound exactly alike. I told her the truth about Sal and Mick…her freak out was epic.”

“Any breakthroughs?”

“There are no breakthroughs to have, Allie. My mind’s made up, I just need time and a plan,” Ian said and pulled up Ernesto’s abandoned stool to sit near Alex as she worked.

Alex rolled her eyes but didn’t force the argument. She knew what it meant when Ian’s jaw was set the way it was. “How’s your accounting class?”

“Fucked—I’m fairly certain he’s not speaking English. I got my worksheet back and it’s like I got everything backwards and the notes he made are even more confusing.”

“Woodbine is the fucking worst. I’ve been hearing warnings about him since freshman orientation, but he’s got tenure. Can’t you change streams?”

“I can’t; he’s the only one that fits into my timetable. If I change, I’ll either clash with another core course, or I’ll lose shifts here. Fuck, barely three weeks into the semester and I already feel like I’m fucking drowning in this class.”

“Maybe you can get a tutor to make up for Woodbine? Maybe Alan…”

“Ugh, Allie, fuck Alan.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” she said and grinned at him impishly. “Dress him up like a gangster if that’s what gets you going. Valentine’s Day is in a couple of weeks and I bet he does the most thoughtful shit,” she trailed off, recognizing the faraway look on Ian’s face. It wasn’t a good sign for Alan’s chances that whenever she brought up his name, Ian’s mind automatically found its way to Mickey.

He seemed to shake himself out of it. “You wanna hear Sal grovel while you work?” he asked as he dialled the voicemail on his phone. Alex couldn’t help but be intrigued. What would this powerful gangster sound like when reaching out to his lover?

As it turns out, he sounded pretty pathetic. If she hadn’t been aware of all his other sins, Alex could almost understand Ian’s dismissiveness of his mobster boyfriend. In a series of increasingly frantic voicemails, Sal went from authoritative and demanding to snivelling and beseeching within minutes. He promised the world for another chance and sobbed his apologies.

_“I just need to see you,”_ Sal pled on the phone, _“I can make it right, I swear!”_

Somewhere in the middle of the begging was a seemingly random flash of rage that quickly subsided into gross grovelling again, and the only thing more remarkable than the cringe worthy display, was Ian’s utterly blasé attitude towards it.

“Dude is demented,” Alex said dazedly.

“Yeah, he’s on something,” Ian shook his head, “he can sweat for a while longer.”

Alex’s forehead crinkled but she held her tongue. Ian was certain he knew what he was doing. She hoped to hell he was right.

* * *

Mickey jiggled his beer can and found it to be empty. He lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to summon the energy and will to head back down to the kitchen. He grunted as he got off the bed and made the long journey downstairs. His brothers were scattered across the kitchen. Iggy and Joey sat at the kitchen island, their eyes glued to their phones, while Tony sat in the breakfast nook by the window. Jaime was at the stove, making them all lunch, and they all looked up at his approach. No one said a word as Mickey went to the fridge and retrieved a six pack, but as Mickey headed back through the entryway to the living room, Joey made a valiant attempt.

“Hey, Mick, remember me and Iggy have that heist over on 63rd soon. You have any instructions?”

Mickey didn’t so much as break his stride or look back over his shoulder. Instead he pulled a beer from the pack and popped it open as he went. He did say one thing to his brother before he disappeared from view. “You want instructions? Go fuck yourself,” he said and went back to his room without a further word.

“Get off his dick for a few minutes already,” Tony told his little brother, “he’ll come around when he’s ready.”

The brothers all murmured softly to themselves and resumed what they had all been doing—staying put, waiting for the storm to pass.

* * *

Ian couldn’t believe how nervous he was as he waited for Mickey to arrive. It had been almost a week since they’d seen each other, and Ian had been good. He hadn’t called, or texted or reached out in any way, and going cold turkey had to have been the worst thing imaginable. Mickey hadn’t tried to contact him either, which made the moment feel even more nerve-wracking and uncertain, but Ian felt like he was at his limit. Sal had called to ask to see him in the politest way possible and he had almost chomped at the bit in saying yes.

He had been pacing his apartment, trying to calm down and play out every possible scenario of how this first post-breakup meeting could go. He looked out the window for the umpteenth time and finally there was the Escalade pulling up to the curb. Ian’s hands were instantly clammy. He was already standing by the door when he heard the first knock and he flung it open to find a very startled Iggy pawing at the air.

Iggy waved awkwardly as a look of acute disappointment and apprehension crossed Ian’s features. “Um, hey.”

Ian took a step back. He hadn’t seen any of the brothers either since the elaborate threat and he could have gone on a lot longer that way. The press of the sharp knife against his mouth and the feel of Tony’s hands around his throat rushed back and he flinched automatically.

“Come on, man, don’t be like that,” Iggy sighed. “No one’s trying to hurt you or anything. We’re cool, right? We’re cool.”

“Where’s Mickey?” Ian blurted out before he could stop himself.

Iggy sighed heavily and shrugged, “don’t know. He went on a run, I think, a couple days ago, but he didn’t tell us where. Sal probably knows.”

“Well, when will he be coming back?”

Iggy shook his head, “dude, I don’t know. Probably soon? We’re not exactly his favourite people right now, so he isn’t saying shit to us,” Iggy said and hesitated before adding, “you probably shouldn’t be asking too many questions about him either. I mean, you know…” Iggy said sheepishly, “but yeah, Sal said to come get you.”

Ian nodded reluctantly. Well this had turned into a spectacular failure. Now he would have to deal with Sal and there would be no Mickey to make up for it. The apparent rift between Mickey and his brothers worried him too. If nothing else, it was reassuring to know that in the madness of everything, Mickey’s family had his back at least. Now they weren’t speaking and Mickey was off god knows where, doing god knows what, and Ian felt his anxiety spiking because of it. For the moment, all he could do was grab his coat and follow Iggy out into the quiet, cold evening.

* * *

The bedroom had been transformed into gift central. Sal was clearly pulling out all the stops for this apology and Ian found himself a little overwhelmed.

“I don’t need all this shit,” Ian said irritably. His plan had gone awry and his mood had blackened considerably on the ride over. He looked over at the piles of boxes. “What am I supposed to do with all of this?”

“Anything you want,” Sal said eagerly, “they’re yours, they’re yours.”

“Well, I don’t _want_ all this shit,” Ian said and crossed his arms defiantly in front of him. Ian’s shortness with him only seemed to spur Sal further to make amends and become more agreeable. Ian intended to milk that for as long as he could.

“I’m so embarrassed,” Sal moaned, “I was fucked up. I took some shit earlier in the day and then having to go to that fucking wake—”

“It’s not a wake if the guy’s not dead yet,” Ian pointed out peevishly.

“Ah, you know what I mean,” Sal said, “Ian, I’m not that man, you know this.”

Ian tuned out as Sal began explaining away his behaviour. While Sal went on, he took a look around the room, taking inventory as he tried to figure out the gifts piled on the bed and the floor, and what their potential pawn value would be. At the rate things were going, he strongly doubted Sal would be willing or even around to foot his tuition next year, so he needed to start making plans. He squirmed a little contemplating what Mickey’s reaction would be to him keeping all this stuff, then his thoughts turned once again to Mickey’s issue with his brothers. Clearly they were all on Mickey’s shit list, and Ian was left to wonder just how far down that list he currently placed.

Ian was heading into the living room when Mickey returned the next day. They both froze for a moment—Ian by the entryway to the kitchen and Mickey by the front door. Neither of them was remotely prepared for this. Ian didn’t think he’d ever seen Mickey this dressed down—he looked scruffy in his baggy jeans and dirty workman boots, and he was heavily hooded-up against the cold. There was silence as they took each other in and Mickey’s grip on his duffel bag went white. All Ian wanted to know was where he’d been and what he was doing and who he was with.

“Um,” Ian began but Mickey turned and headed up the stairs without so much as a hello.

As if sensing their brother’s return, the older Milkoviches trickled into the pool house one by one over the course of the next hour. Ian made sure to disappear upstairs into the bedroom, unwilling and unprepared to face either Tony or Jaime. He made sure to leave the door wide open, hoping to see Mickey when the man re-emerged from his bedroom and maybe even have some kind of conversation.

When Mickey stepped out again, he was clean shaven and firmly back into mobster-mode, vested with his sleeves rolled up and his hair gelled into place. Ian was glad to see Mickey in any form, but he couldn’t help but lament the early loss of the unkempt, normal looking Mickey that had come in just a few hours before. Much to Ian’s dismay, Mickey only gave him a passing glance and headed straight for Sal’s office.

“Look who’s back,” Sal greeted him warmly, “you get everything okay?”

“Yeah, got something for me to do?” Mickey said, getting right to the point.

Sal was taken aback. “You just came in; you can deal with shit tomorrow. I won’t charge you.”

He had been tired after the long trip and had planned on coming in, showering and getting some sleep. That is until he saw Ian and all Mickey’s nervous, frantic energy came roaring back. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was to stay in the house, knowing Ian was there but no longer with him; not to mention hanging around his brothers. He nodded at Sal.

“I’m good to go. What do you need?”

Sal shrugged, “well since you’re all raring to go, take Jaime or Tony with you and go deal with that fucking Giovanni situation then.”

“I can deal with it on my own,” Mickey said.

Sal looked up before leaning back in his chair and staring at Mickey steadily. “I would prefer if you took a heavy. Since when is it a problem to take one of your brothers with you?”

“Not a problem, I just don’t think I need back up for something like this.”

Sal nodded slowly, his eyes not leaving Mickey. He then picked up his phone and called Jaime. “Get up here.”

A moment later, Jaime was stepping into the office, looking nervously from Sal to Mickey as he came to stand next to his brother. Sal spread his hands and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Is there a problem here, boys; something that needs to be arbitrated, perhaps?”

“No, Sal,” the two brothers said in unison.

“Really? Nothing?” Sal asked again and the brothers shook their heads, looking clearly uncomfortable. Sal pointed at Mickey and waved his finger in Jaime’s direction. “Look at your brother.”

Mickey crossed his arms and rocked on his heels before flicking a quick glance somewhere in the vicinity of Jaime’s shoes.

Sal snorted loudly, “Jesus, you fucking kids,” he then jerked his head at Jaime, “fuck off.”

Jaime hesitated before doing just that, leaving Sal alone with his brother. Sal looked at Mickey, whose eyes were downcast.

“So you’re having a fight with your brothers, I can understand that; fucking family, right? You can’t live with them, you can’t live without them, and brothers fight like cats and dogs all the fucking time. It might take a little time to blow over, but I know you boys will sort this out in your own time. I’m not unsympathetic,” Sal said and leaned forward to prop an elbow up on the table and rub at his mouth, “now the issue I do have with this little situation is that your brothers aren’t just your brothers, they’re also your crew. If you start having issues with your crew, then you’re going to start running into problems. If you start running into problems, then I’m going to start having problems, and that’s not an acceptable situation.

You’re going to have to figure this shit out. I’ve made a few concessions for you over the past week to deal with whatever personal shit you have going on, but I’m not inclined to make any more. You can’t fly solo here, so you man up and you handle your fucking crew. You put this petty shit aside and you control them. Don’t make me think I’ve made a mistake here giving you this responsibility. Now put your fraternal shit aside for now, take Jaime, and go handle this fucking business, capisce?”

Mickey bit his tongue and nodded.

* * *

“Take him home,” Sal ordered Mickey the following night and the command left two young men hanging in uncertainty.

Mickey had just stepped into the house, hadn’t even moved away from the door yet, when Sal issued the order from the couch. Mickey looked over to see Ian standing stock-still on the stairs, glancing back over at him nervously.

“I have school early in the morning,” he said to Mickey, as if by way of explanation.

Mickey tried to think of a way out of it. He wondered how hard it would be to return Ian’s chauffeuring duties back to Iggy. The point was moot for that moment anyway, since all his brothers were gone, scattered to the wind on various missions.

The tension in the car was close to unbearable and Ian hadn’t even climbed in yet. He buckled in, wondering if there was any safe way to open some kind of dialogue. There wasn’t a safe thought in his head. _“I miss you,”_ was truthful, but probably the worst idea; _“I just want to know you’re okay,”_ sounded trite in his head. 

Mickey stared straight ahead, flexing his hands around the steering wheel as he waited for Ian to close the door and settle down. He refused to look at him, refused to acknowledge he existed in anyway, because of Ian didn’t exist right now, then maybe he could make it through this car ride without screaming.

They drove in silence, feeling the pressure become palpable and the tension stretch and strain to reach a snapping point. The further they went, the more Ian would look over and the longer he would stare despite Mickey’s coldness. Mickey could feel Ian’s eyes on him each time, could see Ian’s mouth open and close wordlessly as he gathered more of his courage each time to speak.

Mickey wasn’t proof against it, he wasn’t proof against anything when it came to Ian and he could feel himself cracking under the strain. There was a tremor in his fingers, concealed by gloves and his white-knuckled grip on the wheel. Ian was making another attempt to cross the breach and Mickey was this close to losing his shit. He pulled in abruptly at the next gas station, surprising Ian and cutting him off before he could speak.

Mickey was out of the car in a flash, leaving Ian inside the car, and went into the store to top up a tank that was already well over half full. After he paid, he stepped back outside to see Ian pumping the gas. He used Ian’s distraction to cut around to the bathroom and try to pull himself together. He splashed cold water on his face and kept his eyes squeezed shut as he stood braced over the sink.

“So this is how it’s going to be now?”

Mickey sighed and slowly opened his eyes and stared at the reflections in the mirror. Ian was standing behind him, staring dejectedly at his back. Mickey straightened up and dried his face.

“I could swear we’ve had this conversation before,” Mickey said as he turned to face Ian.

“I miss you,” Ian said, “I don’t just mean the screwing around either. I miss us, I miss talking to you, I miss hanging out. Why can’t we meet somewhere in the middle; somewhere between the fucking and pretending the other person doesn’t exist?

Mickey searched Ian’s face, undone a little by the earnestness. He wasn’t sure what to say to any of that, not sure what he could say. His hand twitched by his side and he vacillated between the temptation to touch Ian and agree to everything and anything he had to say, and to do the wiser, safer thing and continue shutting him out. In the end, he pulled off his glove and reached up to touch Ian’s face.

They crashed through the stall door in a desperate tangle, both of them struggling to shrug off their heavy jackets while trying to stay connected and not break the burning kiss and the press of their bodies against each other. Ian dumped his jacket first and spun Mickey around to shove him against the door in the tight space of the bathroom cubicle. He fumbled with Mickey’s belt and groaned as Mickey’s fingers found their way under his shirt and their nails bit into the flesh of his back.

“Miss you,” Ian panted into the crook of Mickey’s neck before he sucked there hungrily. It didn’t feel as if it had been a week, it felt like they had been apart forever. Ian couldn’t believe how much he had missed this, the taste of Mickey’s skin and the delicious whines he could draw out of him when he kissed and bit at Mickey’s throat.

He finally managed to slip his hand through Mickey’s undone zipper and groped him until Mickey shuddering against him. Mickey pulled him down until their lips were joined again, and he ground down hard when Mickey hooked a leg around his. He was about to yank Mickey’s pants down and get to his knees when a voice rang out in the bathroom.

“Hey, is the owner of the Escalade in here?”

They both went still, their harsh breathing the only sound between them. Mickey grimaced and shoved Ian away. “Yeah, what?!”

The newcomer sounded flustered and apologetic. “It’s just that you’re holding up the pump.”

“Yeah, alright give me a minute.”

It was sort of amazing just how much damage they could do to each other in such a short amount of time. They tried to straighten up as best as they could as quickly as they could manage in the tight space, all the while stealing glances at the other. Before they could step out of the stall, Mickey paused and Ian looked at him with a mix of hope and trepidation.

“We don’t get a middle ground, you and me,” Mickey said, “it’s either zero or a fucking thousand for us, there’s no in-between. The way I see it, zero’s a whole lot safer for the both of us.” He looked away before he could see Ian’s face fall and he exited the stall cautiously. He chanced a last look back at Ian before they headed back out into the sobering winter air. “Come on, let’s get you home.”   


	16. Journey to the Center

The forecast had said four to six inches of snow, but it hadn’t even hit midday yet and over a foot of snow had already fallen. It had been snowing heavily all day and showing no signs of letting up. Despite the blizzard, Preston refused to cancel classes and by the time Ian wrapped up his last one, the outdoors looked impossible. He groaned out loud. The buses, if they were even still running, were going to be slammed, not to mention the trains. It was going to be a freezing hell to get home. He sighed and revved himself up to set off into the white, swirling madness; knowing that he might just have to elbow a few people in the face to get home before nightfall. His phone rang before he could figure out his best way off campus. It was Mickey.

“Hey,” he answered eagerly. He would never know what it was about Mickey’s calls that never failed to make him instantly breathless.

“Hey,” Mickey said softly before clearing his throat self-consciously and speaking up, “you at school?”

“Uh, yeah, just finished with class.”

“I’m by the east gate,” Mickey said, “you need a ride home?”

Ian found Mickey waiting for him in a small, empty kiosk near the gate. Ian shuffled inside with him, grateful that the wind and the cold had already reddened his face. He grinned at Mickey, who was curled in on himself and bundled into a heavy, hooded camo jacket. It was one of his favourite things when Mickey was dressed down away from the formality of Sal’s dictated dress code. During those times, it was easy to imagine that there was no Sal, no Mob, no complications; just Ian the student and Mickey the mechanic.

“What are you doing here?” Ian asked.

“I was in the neighbourhood,” Mickey shrugged awkwardly, sneaking quick glances at Ian’s face before looking away. It made Ian grin harder. It was one of Mickey’s tells that he wasn’t being entirely honest. Mickey peeked up at Ian again, “I know you get out around now and it’s coming down like gangbusters. I figured you might need a ride.”

“How’d you know I was getting out now?!”

“You gave me your timetable, idiot,” Mickey heaved a sigh of exasperation and longsuffering.

Ian blinked at him, “you still have that?”

The question clearly flustered Mickey and he answered gruffly, “why the fuck would I get rid of it?”

Ian could think of a few reasons, but he wasn’t about to question it. He just nodded, feeling stupidly pleased and all a-flutter as they stood huddled together in the empty kiosk while miserable people trudged by them. Mickey nodded and told Ian that they should go before even the Escalade got bogged down. Mickey set off a few feet, only to look back to see Ian lagging a bit behind him.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

Ian shook his head. There was no way he could explain to Mickey that he was hanging back, giving his alarm clock time to go off before the dream got really devastating. Waking up after they’d gotten to the point of being intimate was always the worst. He shook his head at Mickey’s concerned look, feeling like a total idiot, and quickly fell into step with the other man.

By the time they got to the car, they looked like a couple of mismatched snowmen. They shook off the snow as best as they could and quickly climbed in. They both sighed happily when Mickey blasted the heater.

“Fucking storms,” Mickey grumbled, “these fucking winters, I swear to god.”

“Just hang in there a little while longer,” Ian began a very familiar tease, “just a little more and before you know it, you’ll be retired in Florida at the ripe old age of thirty.”

Mickey grinned in spite of himself, “can you fuck off with that ‘I’m an old man’ shit, please?”

“Think about it, Mick,” Ian continued heedlessly, “all of your favourite things: warm weather, no kids on your lawn, hard candy just naturally appearing in your pants.”

“Hard candy, huh? Is that a euphemism for something?” Mickey said, making Ian snort and roll his eyes.

“You’re such an idiot,” Ian sniffed before his expression gentled into a smile. They both sat quietly, watching the blanketing snow and grinning dumbly at each other before Mickey remembered why he was there and put the car in drive.

It was slow going getting to Ian’s apartment, but neither of them was about to complain about it. They spoke and joked shyly and hesitantly, feeling out the situation as they crept along the streets. They fell quiet for the last leg of the journey, with Ian sternly telling himself not to invite Mickey upstairs when he got home, while Mickey vowed not to find an excuse to say yes if Ian asked.

It was easier said than done. When Mickey pulled up before his building, Ian looked out at the crazy amount of snow coming down. The storm seemed to be worsening and—less honourable motives aside—he worried about Mickey forging through it alone.

“Are you sure it’s safe to drive through this?” Ian asked and dragged his nails over the thighs of his jeans as his anxiety spiked.

“It’ll be fine,” Mickey reassured him, “just gotta get going before I get trapped.”

Ian said nothing to that. He knew he needed to get out of Mickey’s car and let him get going before any mistakes were made. He didn’t move yet, however, but stole another glance at Mickey while he played with the door handle.

“Thanks for the rescue,” he said and smiled when Mickey grunted at him, caveman-like. He looked out at the snow and then stared down at Mickey’s hand resting casually on the gearshift. “So…are we doing this then?” Ian asked softly, “are we trying to find the middle?”

Mickey couldn’t help but laugh and slump back against the seat. He looked at Ian with fond frustration. “You can never just go with it, can you? It always has to be spelled out.”

Ian shrugged, “I am what I am, alright?”

Mickey sighed and wetted his lower lip as he mulled it over, distracting Ian a little. “Just…call me when you need a ride, okay? Let’s see how it goes.”

It was probably as close to the affirmative as he was going to get and Ian wasn’t about to push it. “Tell me when you get home.”

“Huh?”

Ian nodded at the storm, “be careful, and tell me when you get home in this.”

Mickey snorted and nodded, “sure, mom. Now get the fuck out so I can go.”

* * *

An excruciating length of time later, Ian’s phone chirped signalling a text from Mickey which simply said “home now.” Ian immediately sent a text back. “Really? Are you sure you’re not actually lying dead in a ditch somewhere and just sent me this text so I won’t freak?” He swore he could hear Mickey’s snort from miles away. A moment later, Ian’s phone buzzed with Mickey’s incoming video call. There was Mickey in all his relaxed glory, evidently in the warmth of his room, wearing that blue and orange tank Ian loved so much. His heart squeezed painfully at the mess of it all.

Mickey swept the room with his phone before turning the camera back to himself. “Happy now?”

Ian grinned and shrugged lightly. “Momentarily satisfied. Thank you.”

Mickey frowned at him, “thanks for what?”

“For letting me know you got home okay, dumbass. I was starting to freak out a little.”

Mickey snorted derisively at Ian’s nonsense, but his fluster was evident and Ian was reminded that a bashful Mickey Milkovich might just be the cutest thing in existence. Jesus, even video calling was dangerous, but neither of them moved to end the call. Instead, Ian watched entranced as Mickey went about getting a cigarette and lighting up before moving to the window to glare out at the snow.

“Look at all that shit I’m going to have to shovel,” he sighed.

“I’ll help you when I come over if you need me to,” Ian volunteered, “but you do have a bunch of brothers if I recall correctly.”

Mickey snorted so hard, Ian was surprised his sinuses didn’t collapse. “Fuck them, I can do it myself.”

“You have to make up with your brothers, Mick,” Ian sighed, “you can’t go this shit alone. They need you and you need them, and it fucking scares me out that you’re not letting them help you.”

Mickey looked away from the phone and Ian’s concerned face guiltily. Ian’s quiet plea had quickly done a number on him in a way Sal hadn’t managed. He sighed and scratched his forehead with his thumb in agitation.

“Yeah, maybe…we’ll see.”

* * *

It was a frosty ride into the woods a couple days later and it had nothing to do with the weather outside the car. Iggy tried vainly to dispel the near palpable tension, but had failed miserably. He managed to get a few grunts out of Mickey and that had been it. Jaime even tried a few times from his spot in the backseat and had met with even less success; Mickey choosing to ignore him completely. By the time they found their desired spot, all three brothers were on edge and Jaime felt he had had enough.

“How much longer you plan on acting like a bitch about this?” he challenged Mickey when they went to retrieve their tools from the trunk of the car. Mickey only shot him a baleful look and picked up a shovel. The protracted silent treatment only grated Jaime’s nerves further. “You’re such an ungrateful little prick.”

“Ungrateful?!” Mickey looked taken aback, “here’s the thing, some dumb fuck pulls a gun on me, shoves it in my face and roughs up my boyfriend, I’m not going to be fucking grateful about it. But maybe that’s just me; I’m weird like that.”

“Oh he’s your boyfriend now?” Jaime spat, “I must have missed that update on Facebook, or maybe he was just too busy deep-throating his other boyfriend’s cock to share the happy news!”

“Guys, come on,” Iggy said, trying to calm the two brothers down as they got in each other’s faces.

“No, no, fuck him, are you hearing this?!” Jaime said, shutting Iggy’s efforts down, “we try to look out for him and save his sorry ass, and all he wants to do is cry over his fucking gold digger bitch. It must be such a fucking honour sharing cock with Sal. Let me know how the happily ever after goes when he leaves both your asses high and dry to move on to his next mark, you dumb fuck.”

Jaime rolled his eyes in disgust, grabbed the shovel away from Mickey and turned away from his silently fuming brother. Iggy could have told Jaime that this was a mistake. Mickey might not have a prayer of squaring up with Jaime head to head, but that didn’t mean he was going to let shit slide. Jaime hadn’t gotten more than a few feet away from his furious brother before Mickey marched up behind him, dropped to one knee and executed a crushing low blow, whacking Jaime between the legs with all the upward forced he could manage. Iggy grimaced and crossed his legs in empathy. Jaime dropped to his knees; gasping for air and clutching his abused genitals, only to feel his little brother wrap him in a chokehold from behind.

“You little bitch!” Jaime rasped and struggled to get to his feet.

“He’s not a fucking gold digger and you don’t know shit about him or us or anything!” Mickey raged and clung on for dear life as his brother fought the stranglehold and staggered to his feet.

“Get off me, you fucking hobbit!” Jaime gasped, already beginning to feel lightheaded. He lurched about, trying his best to dislodge Mickey who hung like a monkey from his back. Iggy sighed, closed the trunk of the car and hopped onto it to wait out the epic battle.

Jaime clawed at Mickey’s arm and tried his best to shake him off. Desperate, he found a tree and rammed hard into it backwards, eliciting a pained yelp from Mickey. Jaime still couldn’t manage to shake him.

“Say you’re fucking sorry!” Mickey yelled.

“Fuck you!” Jaime gasped and rammed against the tree again, his knees close to buckling, “tried to fucking save you…you know you were fucking up…did what I had to.”

“Fuck that! Who the fuck asked you to?!” Mickey demanded as Jaime finally stopped trying to crush him and slowly sagged to his knees.

“Nobody has to ask me,” Jaime wheezed, “I’m your big brother, you piece of shit…it’s my job.”

Jaime lost consciousness and slumped forward into the snowy earth, Mickey still clinging to his back for insurance until he was sure the job was done. Afterwards, Mickey rolled off his passed out brother and lay on the ground panting. Iggy came over and looked down on them.

“You want some of this?!” Mickey challenged despite being clearly exhausted. Iggy raised his hands in symbolic surrender before extending a hand to his brother. He dragged Mickey to his feet and they headed over to the car to wait on the trunk until Jaime regained consciousness.

“You couldn’t have waited until we dealt with Giovanni first? He’s fucking heavy,” Iggy murmured.

“Fuck it, the ground’s frozen anyway,” Mickey said. “Sal’s a fucking moron sending us out here. We’ll do it the right way, head down to the plant.”

Iggy offered his brother some of his chips and they both watched to see when Jaime would stir.

“He’s gonna be pissed when he wakes up,” Iggy pointed out, “nice takedown though.”

“Yeah, spread the word.”

* * *

The next evening after work, Ian waited at the bus stop for approximately ten seconds before he was on his phone and calling Mickey, who picked up before the second ring.

“Hi, are you busy?” Ian asked.

“Why? What’s up?”

“I just got through with work and I don’t know what’s up with the buses. I haven’t seen any since I’ve been out here,” Ian said. It was true, technically. “Can you give me a ride?”

“Yeah, give me fifteen.”

Neither of them mentioned the bus that had just driven off as Mickey came to a stop at Ian’s feet. Ian also wasn’t going to mention the two other buses that had come and gone while he had waited. Ian climbed into the warm car and wiggled out of his coat to dump it on the backseat, falling back easily into their routine. He stopped short of messing with Mickey’s loosened tie and his hair, or rubbing his thigh, so the process felt incomplete. Still Ian wasn’t about to complain.

“How was work?” Mickey asked.

“Boring and full of morons, but—” Ian opened his backpack and fished out a giant bag of candy. “—they finally got around to dumping the Halloween stuff. These are all good, but they are seasonal and they’re not keeping them around all the way to next Halloween. You want?”

It was as if Mickey had seen the Promised Land. He promptly pulled into the next open parking lot and relieved Ian of the bag of goodies. He went straight for the mini candy bars and quickly stuffed his face.

“You child,” Ian clucked at him.

“Shut up, you’re a child!” Mickey defended staunchly through a mouthful of nougat.

Ian rolled his eyes and fished for some Jolly Ranchers. “So, how are things with your brothers?”

“A day later?” Mickey said dryly, but softened at Ian’s worried face, “better, but I’m still making them sweat a little,” Mickey said before adding with no small hint of pride, “I kicked Jaime’s ass yesterday.”

Ian almost choked on his candy. “You got into it with Jaime? Are you crazy?! Wait, you won?!”

“Fucking right I won.”

Ian paused and regarded Mickey closely. “You beat him fairly?”

It was Mickey’s turn to roll his eyes. “Are you fucking serious? You think I’m going to square up with Jaime? Nah, I used the cunning God gave me and brought his fat ass down. Now the rest of them will know and fall back into fucking line.”

Ian was both intrigued and amused. “Are you brothers or pack animals?”

“What’s the difference?” Mickey asked wryly.

Ian’s grin grew wider as he watched Mickey go in on a full-size Snickers bar. “And you’re the alpha?”

“Fucking A, I’m the alpha. Jaime coordinated this shit and the rest of them followed him, so I made an example of him and the rest of them will know not to fucking test me again.”

“Ah, how very Sun Tzu of you, or is this the gospel according to Sal?”

Mickey sniffed, “they’re my brothers, but they’re also my crew and I couldn’t fall back in with them without meting out some kind of punishment or warning. I need to handle my crew.”

“Definitely the gospel according to Sal then,” Ian said.

“Sal’s rules, prison rules, the law of the jungle, it’s natural law. If you’re a weak leader or you lose control, you lose your crew. You’re gonna tell me that’s not the same thing that went down with your family when Fiona lost her shit?”

Ian rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “I would never have thought about it like that, I guess. I mean things just kind of fell apart all at the same time. It wasn’t just because Fiona wasn’t being ‘alpha’ enough.”

“Definitely a contributing factor from what you’ve been telling me,” Mickey said, “you lose control over your crew and everything goes to shit. You guys didn’t start listening to her again until she got her own ass in order. Same thing happened here; Milkoviches just go about these things a bit more violently.”

Ian sighed and swatted Mickey’s hand when he went for more candy. “Enough, you’re going to make yourself sick at this rate.” He ignored Mickey’s protests and shoved the bag of candy back into his backpack. “They’re yours, but you’re getting them on slow release,” he said. “But you guys are okay now though, right? They have your back?”

“We were always going to be okay again eventually, Ian, and we always have each other’s backs, even if we don’t particularly like each other for a while,” Mickey reassured him. “We’re brothers; we’re good.”

Mickey probably wouldn’t understand how relieved that simple reassurance made Ian feel. He nodded at Mickey and relaxed into his seat.

“They were right, you know; we were fucking up big time,” Ian said and looked over at Mickey who gazed back at him.

“So, you think everyone has learnt their lesson now?” Mickey asked and switched on the ignition.

Ian didn’t answer. He hadn’t been so great at learning some lessons lately, and staring at Mickey’s profile against the dying twilight, Ian felt like the slowest person alive.

* * *

He was burning. That was the only way Mickey could think of it. There was something under his skin, seeping into his system, making him itch and catch fire and there was fuck all he could do about it. He paced atop the abandoned Southside building in his agitation and took deep gulps of cold air as he tried to cool his blood. There weren’t words to describe how badly he wanted Ian and all the ways Ian satisfied him. He craved the hard, pounding punishment of Ian’s body into his, the twist of Ian’s fingers, the bite of his teeth, the blistering heat of his body. He missed the softness just as much; the gentle glide of Ian’s lips over his skin, the way the skilled fingers probed and found places Mickey didn’t even know existed until he was shaking from the feel of it all.

He missed Ian, being with him like that. He missed the way Ian would trap him and hold him close and wouldn’t let him squirm away when the quietness and emotions of the moment felt too overwhelming and his instinct to escape threatened to kick in. He missed the way Ian eased him into the whole new world that had opened up and he hated he wasn’t there anymore. He missed that crappy apartment. He missed that dumb heater that was either threatening to melt them or forcing them to crawl into each other for warmth. He missed the bubble.

It was the worst idea—this finding the middle bullshit—because he and Ian were in each other’s spaces again, talking to each other too much, laughing at each other’s stupid jokes again, staring at each other a little too long every single time. But it was worse now than when they first began to sink, because they knew now, knew what was on the other side of the chaste flirting and the lingering looks. Not enough time had passed since they’d been forced to stop to take the edge and the sting away, for Ian’s taste to leave his mouth and the touch of Ian’s skin to fade from his still tingling fingers. So Mickey burned as he once again foolishly committed himself to this strange, sweet kind of hell, and wondered if he’d ever re-emerge alive and in one piece.

“You jonesing?” Dre blew out a puff of smoke and icy breath as he watched his friend pace the roof and periodically flex his neck as he smoked and muttered to himself wordlessly. “I know all the signs; I know many an addict.”

“Maybe,” Mickey sighed and finally stopped pacing to take a seat on the fold-out chair before his friend. “I need something.”

Dre snorted softly in amusement. “I know what you need. I’d offer to help you out, but you’ve got a very specific itch that not even my dick can scratch.”

Mickey slumped down into the chair and dragged his hoodie further down his forehead. “I’m fucking up.”

“What else is new?”

“I’m hanging around Ian again,” Mickey explained. “It’s the last thing in the world I should be doing right now. My brothers know.”

Dre listened with rapt attention as Mickey finally told him what went down with his brothers after he and Ian had been discovered. He told Dre about Jaime’s threats and warnings, and their subsequent fight. He spoke about how Ian had been abducted and thoroughly frightened into breaking up with him, and how they were now trying to find their way to come bullshit center where they tortured each other knowing that nothing could or should ever come of it.

Dre shook his head at the end of Mickey’s tale. “Fucking Jaime, man, I swear to god. He and Drew are the same goddamned thing,” Dre said, mentioning his own forceful older brother. “He would do the same fucking thing, no difference. Fucking psychopaths.”

“Yeah, but they were right though,” Mickey admitted. “I’m supposed to be staying away from him, but…”

Dre looked a Mickey for a moment before breaking into a wide smile and slapping Mickey’s thigh affectionately. “You love this dude!”

Mickey grunted and looked away, “I don’t know,” he sniffed defensively, “maybe. Whatever it is, it’s still stupid.”

Dre only grinned harder and leaned back in his chair. “Nah man, it’s amazing. It’s a wonderful thing.”

“If Sal finds out…”

Dre sucked his teeth loudly, “man, fuck Sal! Fuck Sal with something hard and sandpapery; he ain’t shit. He’s been taking shit away from you since you were kid, man. He shouldn’t be taking this too.”

Mickey blinked at him, unsure how to respond or even how to process that. Dre took a deep drag of his blunt before handing it to Mickey.

“Look, the way I see it, catching feelings for somebody and having them catch feelings for you, that’s a beautiful thing, man. I’m not talking about Sal’s narrow, shallow, bullshit idea of beautiful that he’s always going on about—I’m  talking something real. Guys like us, Mickey; they don’t let us have a lot of beautiful shit in this world, man. We gotta hunt it down, we gotta take it; every once in a while if we’re real lucky, we might stumble across it, but they sure as fuck won’t let us keep it easy. But we deserve beautiful shit too and we shouldn’t be scared into letting it go.”

Mickey’s leg bounced as he contemplated all the possibilities and Dre’s words soaked in. He was starved for a bit of encouragement to go towards Ian as opposed to away and he absorbed it like a sponge. “You saying I should go for it?”

Dre tugged at one of his locks and seemed to think it over. He let out a short laugh. “Fuck, I only know what my dumb ass would do, but I would be keeping mine. Maybe you shouldn’t listen to me though, ‘cause I’m a reckless nigga. You Mob boys still got a decent chance of getting to middle age. If the cops don’t lay me out one day soon, some other cold, young thug will, so carpe fucking diem!”

* * *

“Are you busy?” Ian breathed out and waited for Mickey’s answer.

It had become farcical practically overnight. He could easily tell from the tone of Mickey’s voice and the way he answered the phone when Mickey was in Mob mode or whether or not he was busy. He knew that Mickey would pretend to waffle a bit too before he inevitably came. They still clung to the pretence that these calls were anything other than desperate ploys to see each other and spend some time together. The farce provided some comfort that they weren’t being entirely stupid, that they weren’t fucking up again as they slowly went down that familiar slide. Instead they were being friends; friends who helped each other out and spent entirely way too much time in charged silences, stealing glances at each other in the car like dorks.

“You don’t have school or work right now, so what could you need?” Mickey pointed out, playing his part perfectly.

Ian chewed on his lower lip as his hand slipped under his shirt of its volition. He glowed a little at how well Mickey had committed his timetable and work schedule to memory. Granted, after driving him back and forth so often, Mickey might have just naturally figured it out, but Ian clung to the romantic idea of Mickey reading and reading his schedules until they were tattooed on his brain.

“My kitchen is empty,” Ian said airily, “I figure I’d do some major stocking up before the next blizzard. Save me from public transportation?”

It was a little embarrassing how excited he got at the sight of the Mustang pulling up across the street. It gave him the same feeling it did whenever Mickey dressed down and seemed to step out of Gangster Land for a moment. Actually, that care gave him a lot of different feelings, but Ian was trying his best not to dwell too much on the far more dangerous ones.

“Hey,” he said after he got into the car.

“Got your shopping list?” Mickey asked dryly before he returned Ian’s smirk and peeled off towards the furthest supermarket within reason.

* * *

It was a sign of how far he’d fallen that he would be pushing a cart, trailing Ian around a supermarket, watching the idiot quibble over the price of one canned good as opposed to another and marvelling over the identity of cardamom. What’s worse, Mickey didn’t mind any of it; he didn’t mind it one bit.

“You like these pizzas?” Ian asked absently, completely absorbed in his task. Ian had to be the most domestic fucker Mickey had ever met outside of Jaime. Mickey found himself weirdly fantasizing about his eldest brother bonding with Ian over cooking and such like things. They had more in common than either of them would imagine.

“Huh?”

“Pizzas,” Ian repeated while he checked his lists. “We should get some. Junk food’s great for snow-ins.”

Mickey blinked, “um, yeah sure.”

Ian—apparently forgetting the fact that they weren’t together, let alone cohabiting—dumped a bunch of frozen pizzas in the cart and wandered off to find his next item. Mickey checked the cart as he followed. He hadn’t been paying attention, but he now realized just how much of the groceries there were apparently his: his beer, his favourite chips and bread, a box of his cereal. The butterflies inside him flittered about happily and were strong enough to get him to ignore the nagging reason that told him that they needed to stop feeding the delusion. Fuck it all, couldn’t they just pretend for a few minutes?

With everything loaded up, Mickey pointed the car towards home, much to Ian’s disappointment. He had been hoping that Mickey would have suggested they take a ride, but he knew they weren’t there yet. There was a lull in the conversation and he regarded Mickey within the safety of the dark of the car while Mickey focused on the slushiness of the roads.

It was so strange to find them back in this weird space again, even though he had asked for it. He didn’t want to lose it but it wasn’t nearly enough. He was sitting in Mickey’s Mustang again, feeling his heart pounding in that familiar way while he once again dreamt about reaching out and caressing Mickey’s face, even while knowing he couldn’t. It felt like a step so far back, he could barely handle it.

They stopped at a red light and his eyes followed Mickey’s hand as it slid smoothly to the gearshift. He couldn’t help but sigh. Here he was again, ogling Mickey’s hand, wondering about the touch of it. Except he knew Mickey’s hands now, had felt them all over his body in the best ways. In an unthinking moment, Ian did reach out and trailed a finger lightly over Mickey’s knuckles. He felt Mickey tense slightly, but there was no pulling away or reprimand. Mickey said nothing at all, just looked straight ahead while Ian’s hand glided over his, growing a little bolder with each pass.

An angry blast of a horn shook them both. The light had turned green—must have been green for a while now—and a harried looking woman in a minivan pulled out from behind them and drove past. “Remove head from sphincter, then drive!” she screeched as she flipped them off and sped away into the night. Mickey ran a hand over his face and hurried to get through the light before it could change once again.

* * *

Mickey helped Ian bring up the groceries, but knew better than to linger there long. Ian followed him back to the car and as was their norm, they sat in it together, hanging out for far longer than they knew they should. Ian fished out a bunch for sweets from his jacket pocket and held them out to Mickey.

“Thanks for helping me out.”

“Are you thanking me with my own goddamned candy?” Mickey grumbled but quickly snatched the candy, “where’s the rest of it?”

“Slow release, asshole.” It took Ian a moment to realize what he’d said to send Mickey into a giggle fit. He rolled his eyes and laughed at his idiot. “You’re such a dumbass. You give me shit for my humour and then you laugh like a dork at accidental fart jokes.”

Mickey’s phone rang, announcing that Dre was calling. Mickey looked around fruitlessly for a wipe for his sticky fingers before he simply swallowed his sweet and told the phone to answer. Dre’s voice soon filled the car.

“You’re cool?” Dre asked, recognizing he was on speaker phone and wanting to know if it was okay to talk.

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

Dre still hesitated, immediately clocking that Mickey wasn’t alone and that he sounded a little odd. It took him only a moment to realize that Mickey sounded weird because he sounded relaxed and happy—buoyant even—and Mickey never sounded that way. Once he figured it out, it didn’t take a detective to work out just who Mickey was with to have him sounding that way. Dre almost snorted in amusement. Lord, what fools these mortals be indeed.  

“I just filled a prescription for you,” Dre informed him, “pick it up when you’re ready.”

“I’ll be there in about an hour.”

“Okay,” Dre said and suddenly there was a soft, subtle shift in his voice and the intimacy of it had Ian’s spine straightening. “Ay look, I don’t know if you want to slide through later, but I’m out of warming lube shit you like, so pick some up when you’re coming.” Dre then disconnected immediately, leaving two very stunned men staring at the mounted cell phone.

Ian opened his mouth and closed it again, and then he looked around unseeingly as the emotional embodiment of an air raid siren went off throughout his body. He looked at Mickey, who was still staring at the phone as if he was utterly baffled by how Dre’s voice and words could possibly have leaked out of it in that configuration. Ian didn’t feel like asking questions. He got out of the car and slammed the classic Mustang’s door so hard it was a small miracle it hadn’t cracked right off.  

That woke Mickey up immediately and he watched wordlessly as Ian stormed into his building and disappeared out of sight. Mickey sat in the car, completely at sea for the moment and unsure what his next course of action should be. What the hell was Dre playing at, and what the fuck was he supposed to say to Ian about it? It had gone from gentle bliss to a charged and confusing situation, and Mickey knew it was probably best to leave, give it a moment and regroup for later. Yeah, that would probably be the smart thing, so of course in the next moment, he was out the car and going after Ian.


	17. Talk To Me

Something strange happened to Mickey between the second and eighth floors of Ian’s building. He had gotten in the elevator from the lobby, intent on getting to Ian to calm him down and explain that, no, he wasn’t sleeping with Dre, he wasn’t sleeping with anyone else at all, that there wasn’t even space in his brain to think about anyone else let alone fuck around with them. On the slow ride up to Ian’s apartment though, he couldn’t help but to start thinking of everything from the impossibility of their situation to Ian’s ongoing relationship with Sal, to Ian vengefully abusing his innocent car in his rage. By the time he got to the sixth floor, he was starting to get pissed off too, though it was hard for him to pinpoint about what exactly. Still, by the time he got to Ian’s door, his blood was up and Mickey was raring to go.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” he burst through Ian’s door—which had been closed but not locked—into the apartment and startled its lone occupant.

Ian was having none of it. “Get the fuck out! I don’t want to talk to you!”

“Why? What’s the problem? What exactly am I supposed to have done wrong here?!” Mickey challenged and Ian stared at him as if he had lost his mind.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“Am I forgetting something or didn’t your ass break up with me right outside this fucking building?”

Ian closed the distance between them in a couple of steps, getting right into Mickey’s face and jabbing him hard in the chest. “Fuck you, it hasn’t even been two weeks, you piece of—”

“Two weeks isn’t enough? Is that the problem?” Mickey broke in, silencing Ian for the moment, “so how long then? How long am I supposed to wait around sitting shiva for your narrow ass while you get your rocks off with my boss in the room across from mine?”

Ian snorted incredulously, “oh, that isn’t even remotely fair.”

“None of this shit is fair, Ian; I thought we’d come to that realization already. So what am I supposed to do? What is it you want from me now? I’m supposed to sit around eating my fucking heart out, just waiting for the next moment you’re feeling brave enough to run your fingers over my knuckles again? Fuck that and fuck you! You need to get over yourself, you conceited prick!”

Ian had had enough. “Get the fuck out!” he yelled as he forcefully shoved Mickey back outside the still open door and slammed it in Mickey’s face. He locked it only to jump a little at the harsh sound of Mickey’s fist smashing against the door.

“Fuck you, Gallagher!” Mickey hollered back before stalking back to the elevator, not caring about the doors cautiously cracking open behind him so nosy neighbours could listen in.

Ian stood staring at the door, struggling to catch his breath while the Kill Bill sirens slowly faded in his head. He was half expecting—half hoping—Mickey would come back for round two. When the quiet went on too long, he dashed to the window, just in time to see Mickey storming to the Mustang and squealing away a moment later. He angrily batted the curtains away from him. Well fuck Mickey Milkovich too. Fuck him and his faithless ass and his stupid Mustang. Ian didn’t need him anyway.

* * *

Mickey found a quiet stretch of road to pull over so he could yell and punch his steering wheel for a minute to stop his head from exploding. For the moment, all that could be heard was Mickey’s graphic swearing punctuated by intermittent blasts of the car horn. When he had vented enough, he paused, caught his breath and dialled a familiar number.

“What it is?” Dre drawled across the line.

“Dre, what the fuck?!” Mickey exploded at his friend, “what the fuck was that?!”

“Relax, baby, you’re going to get granddad’s high blood pressure making all that noise,” Dre said, completely unruffled by Mickey’s rage, “why are you coming at me like that?”

“Why am I com—‘I’m out of lube’?! What the fuck was that shit? Ian heard all of that! He wanted to take my fucking head off! Why would you do this?!”

“Because the middle is bullshit, Mick,” Dre said slowly, “ain’t fuck all happening in the middle. The middle is the doldrums, man; no wind in the sails, no backwards or forwards. You feeling me?”

Mickey pulled the phone from his ear and glared at it, confounded. “Are you high?!”

Dre sighed, “bitch, I might be. Look, this shit was unsustainable from the get-go. Either you two figure out how to be together, or you shut it down completely, because there’s just misery in the middle and you know this. One way or another, you’ll thank me eventually.”

* * *

“You seem to be in a mood,” Alex observed as she handed Ian more streamers and another red heart made of construction paper.

“I’m not in a mood,” Ian said sullenly from atop his ladder, before he aggressively stapled the heart and streamers to the ceiling. Alex was quite sure the Valentine decorations were supposed to be hanging artfully from said ceiling as opposed to being skewered to it, but she didn’t feel very safe stating that bit of criticism.

“I don’t know,” she said cautiously, “you really do seem to be in a bit of a mood.”

“Alex, I’m not–” he began sharply before lowering his voice with a jerk, “—in a mood.”

“Oh well then I’m certainly convinced,” Alex said dryly, “wasn’t sure for a minute there, but okay,” she said as she reluctantly sent up another red heart for the slaughter.

While she watched Ian work, Rosa—another cashier—crept up behind Ian to do the same. Her crush on him was as massive as it was hopeless. She stood admiring his tight T-shirt clad form for a while before Alex’s eye roll prompted her to move.   

“Hi, Ian,” she said dreamily as she floated past him towards Alex. She couldn’t help but bat her eyes a little as she went past and give a small toss of her head, shaking her dark bob.

“Hey, Rosa,” Ian said, flashing her a brief stunner of a smile before going back to glaring at a pinned heart and superfluously shooting a bunch more staples into it. Rosa blinked at him before looking at Alex, nonplussed.

“He’s in a mood,” Alex whispered, “what’s up? Is it ogle and objectify Ian time already?” she grinned when Rosa swatted her frantically while glancing over at Ian to see if he had heard. “Oh please, he’s having boy troubles. You could confess to ritualistic murder right now, he won’t register.”

Rosa eyed Ian again. He really seemed brutally focused on his job and she breathed a small sigh of relief. She went back to her task at hand.  “So dig this, a bunch of us single heifers are getting together for a girls’ night on Valentine’s Day. Not exactly sure yet if we’re going out or staying in, but the night will definitely involve an obscene amount of jello shots and some good weed; Leslie has the hook-up and a hookah!”

Alex beamed, pleased to the point of fluster. “Yes, of course, definitely I’m in!”

“Awesome sauce! We’re gonna get together and get white girl wasted!” Rosa squealed before she coughed and added sheepishly, “me and Sara came up with the theme before we got around to actually inviting any white girls.”

Alex couldn’t stop grinning, “no worries at all; I’m the poster child for white girl wasted. I’m here for it.”

Rosa bounced around happily. “Alrighty, prepare to have us bothering you nonstop while we coordinate this shit. Give us any and all ideas of debauchery you get, okay? Ugh, now let me get back to hanging up this ninety-nine cent crap before Simpson chews my ass. Bye Ian!”

“Bye, Rosa,” Ian surfaced from his black mood to respond. He glanced at Alex, “what happened?”

“Having a girls’ night,” Alex bubbled, “I was invited!”

Ian’s smile for his friend and her excitement was broad and genuine, “rock on.”

* * *

“Mickey’s seeing someone else,” Ian eventually admitted later that day. He and Alex had met up at the end of classes for their usual study and homework session. He eyed her suspiciously as she stayed quiet. “What?”

Alex shrugged apologetically, “I’m cycling through all my kneejerk responses so I can get to one that won’t make you more upset.” She patted his hand when he sighed, “what happened?”

“He’s fucking Sal’s drug dealer. Can you believe this shit?!”

Alex couldn’t help a little flicker of amusement, “does everyone hook-up in relation to Sal? It’s like he’s this gross, inadvertent cupid. I should go see him. I wonder if I’ll meet the love of my life and/or next sexual conquest because of him.” 

“Alex…”

“Right, right, sorry!”

“It hasn’t even been two weeks,” Ian lamented, “that’s not even long enough for a rash to clear up.”

Alex scrunched her nose. “A rather gross analogy, but I’ll allow it. I’ve had some pretty gnarly rashes back in the day.” She then listened raptly as Ian told her about his and Mickey’s fight after the discovery. She raked her fingers through her hair as Ian wound down and fumed. “Alright, so you know I’m one hundred percent, completely on your side…”

“Oh god,” Ian groaned and rested his head on the table.

“It’s just—what’s the plan here, Ian? I know it feels fast, but whether it was two weeks or two months, it was going to hurt the same. You’re not together—”

“He knows I want to be with him.”

“But you’re not? You ended things with him and you’re still with Sal and it sort of makes it hard to determine what the proper breakup protocol should be.”

“You don’t sound like you’re on my side, in case you were wondering,” Ian sniped, “it’s not like I’m having the time of my life with Sal. If I could figure out how to leave with Mickey and without getting my face rearranged, I would.”

“Let me go on record once again to say this plan is as insane as it is vague,” Alex said, “and who knows how long this is going to take? It’s not like Mickey knows you have altruistic purposes for staying with Sal either.”

“I can’t tell him,” Ian sighed, “he’ll freak out and go on one of his ‘we need to get you out’ rants.”

“I love how you both want desperately to save each other, but neither of you has a remote clue as to how to do it,” Alex said and shrugged, “why don’t you just kill Sal?” she added jokingly.

“God, don’t tempt me.”

* * *

“I’m by the east gate.”

Ian blinked at the text he’s received after he and Alex had parted ways. He had just made it to the north gate, only for Mickey to tell him he was waiting all the way over at the east one. Ian’s heart thumped painfully in his chest. They hadn’t spoken since their blow up the night before and he wasn’t sure if he even wanted to talk to Mickey, let alone trudge all the way over to the freaking east gate to see him. He shoved the phone back into his pocket without responding to the text and resumed walking.

Ian came into view just as Mickey was getting antsy. Mickey could read the grim set of that jaw from a mile off so he knew that this was not going to start off pleasantly. He waited in their empty kiosk, shifting his weight from foot to foot as Ian got closer, only to see the redheaded child stomp past him without a word. Mickey rolled his eyes and chased after him.

“I didn’t fuck him, alright!” Mickey growled when he was within a discreet distance. Ian’s abrupt halt had Mickey smacking into his broad back and stumbling backwards. Ian eventually turned to eye him sceptically.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying, asshole,” Mickey said gruffly, “I haven’t fucked anyone else since we started this shit. How could I? You’re a fucking full time job,” he said before stepping around Ian and heading off towards the car. Now it was Ian at his heels instead.

“But he said on the phone—”

“Yeah I was there, I heard it. He was fucking with me. Dre does that from time to time. We do the friends with benefits thing on occasion, but like I said, it’s been a while. Lately, it’s just been friend without those kinds of benefits.” Mickey disarmed the car and got in, only to look back and see Ian hesitating outside. “Will you get in the fucking car?!”

Ian blinked and quickly scampered in. He settled in, carefully turning over all this new information in his head while Mickey adjusted the heat. “Nobody else?”

Mickey leaned back against his seat and regarded Ian seriously, “nobody else.”

“Yet,” Ian accused quietly and Mickey sighed.

“What do you want me to say? What am I supposed to do here? You want me to wait? What am I waiting for, Ian?”

Ian’s hand twisted into the material of his jeans. “I mean I still want us to—I mean after everything’s done…”

“After everything’s done and you get out of this shit, you keep going and you don’t look back. None of this is for you. None of it.”

Ian didn’t answer. Instead he looked out the window as Mickey pulled away from the curb. The car was quiet as they drove, both of them mulling over their dilemma. Eventually, it was Ian who broke the silence.

“I don’t want to know,” he said.

Mickey was confused. “Huh?”

“I still think we can figure this out and that we can make it work somehow,” Ian continued, “but I know we can’t right now and I don’t know how long it will take or when it will happen. I know it’s not fair to ask you to just wait like that. So, it’s fine, I guess, but I don’t want to know about it.”

Mickey wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He wasn’t even sure if there was even an acceptable way to respond. It sounded like one of those psychological traps that would spring no matter how he approached it. It wasn’t as if he would ever discuss anything like that with Ian anyway; he would never be fooled into thinking that they could ever be that platonic. He wondered how long it would be before he felt interested in someone who wasn’t Ian again and for the moment, he couldn’t imagine it. What was even stranger was that the apparent permission didn’t give him any relief. He didn’t want that freedom, he didn’t want Ian’s blessing to wander. In fact, he wanted the exact opposite.

Mickey’s phone chirped just before he pulled up before Ian’s building and he sighed when he saw the text. “I’ve got to go,” he said and then noted Ian’s hesitation. “It’s business,” he added on.

Ian didn’t know why Mickey would think that was any more reassuring. Still, he nodded, gathered his things and got out of the car. “Call me when you get home?”

Mickey nodded, but Ian could see he had already switched modes and the casual Mickey that belonged to him had already disappeared. Ian stepped back and watched as Mickey sped away.

* * *

It had been the stupidest decision he had made yet. What he had been thinking telling Mickey it was okay to screw around, he would never know. He didn’t feel better and he certainly didn’t feel in more control of the situation. What he did feel though was paranoid. God knows what—or who—Mickey was doing when he was out of sight. Every phone call was Dre or some loathsome Lothario calling; every whispered conversation was Mickey planning a tryst somewhere.

It had only been a couple days and Ian strongly suspected he was starting to lose it. Right now he sat in the breakfast nook, as opposed to his usual place at the kitchen island, just so he could watch Mickey pacing around the living room having a hushed conversation on his phone. Ian frowned at Mickey’s back as he clicked his pen neurotically, his accounting worksheets scattered and abandoned on the table before him. Mickey laughed _(why would he laugh? What’s funny about Mob business?)_ and told whoever it was he would be there soon. Ian quickly glued his eyes to his papers when Mickey ended his call and came into the kitchen.

“Hey,” Mickey said softly as he neatened the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt and tugged at his grey vest, “I’m going out for a bit but, uh, I should be back in time to take you home. I’ll let you know if I can’t and I’ll get Iggy to do it. You’re cool with Iggy, right?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Ian nodded, tapping his pen on the table while he stared unseeingly at his homework. He then took a piss poor shot at a nonchalant question. “So where are you going?”

“Down to the Rub and Tug; make collections, sort some shit out, and put in some time there. It’s around now that some of the crazies come out.”

A likely story, Ian was sure. Then again, Mickey had answered easily enough and maybe that had been Svetlana he had been talking to on the phone. While he and Mickey had been together, Ian rarely thought of her, but now he was left wondering about her role as Mickey’s beard. How far did they go to keep up appearances, Ian wondered. His mind then turned Trashy Trish and her apparent hard-on for Mickey and wondered if Mickey ever considered it for curiosity’s sake.

“It’s just to the Rub and Tug and back, probably won’t even take all that long,” Mickey said.

Ian realized Mickey might have been responding to all the crazy forming behind his eyes and tried to take it down a notch. “Yeah sure…have fun,” he tacked on lamely and winced at how tragic he was.

“Have fun doing what?” Sal asked upon entering the kitchen and immediately started fussing with Mickey’s collar and tie until Mickey swatted him away.

“Going to the Rub and Tug for a bit,” Mickey repeated.

“Oh,” Sal said and his lecherous smile made Ian want to wipe it off his face with one of his ten pound text books, “fucking right he’ll have fun.” He waggled his eyebrows before heading over to Ian and kissing the top of his head. “How’s my Rhodes Scholar doing?” he asked as he slid into the chair next to Ian. “What are you going to teach me today?”

Ian tried not to grimace and gave Sal a short, strained smile. At least he managed not to look when Mickey walked away without another word.

* * *

“So I told Mickey it was okay to see other people as long as I didn’t know he was seeing other people,” Ian told Alex as she searched the rows of books for her resource materials. “So now I don’t know what he’s doing and it’s driving me insane.”

“Uh huh.”

“He’s probably seeing Dre again because of this whole stupid friends with benefits arrangement. He says it’s just sex and there are no feelings involved, but that has to be bullshit.”

“You don’t say.”

 “I don’t even know anything about this guy except he’s a Southside drug dealer. What kind of name is ‘Dre’ anyway? Sounds so fucking stupid.”

“That’s rough, buddy,” Alex said absently as she tried to match the call numbers on her list to the books in the massive library.

Alex, who was fully aware that her best friend was talking to himself and merely aiming the words in her direction, took the time to delve into her own musings. “Have you seen those new personal shaver commercials? I hate whenever they’re on, they skeeve me out so much.”

“I mean is he taller than me? Is he hot? What do they even see in each other?”

“It’s just that it’s bad enough women have people policing their bodies from the doctor to the congressman, now you’re going to tell me how to control my bush? You have pornography telling the world that a grown woman is supposed to be as smooth and hairless as a newborn—which is so gross and paedophilic I can barely stand it—but if you insist on having hair down there, it better be well-groomed, young lady!”

“I just want to know, you know? What is he like? How much of it is friendship and how much are the benefits? I kind of have an idea where he is, I know the area a bit…how many drug dealers could there be called Dre?”

“And the artistry they want you to show! Landing strips, heart shapes, clovers and blue moons; like fuck off! Who has the time to arrange the good china into fancy shapes? But the worst is when some dude thinks he merits getting his name emblazoned onto your happy place. Could he even appreciate how hard I, Alexis Alden, would have worked for that pussy? What could he possibly have done to deserve getting his dumb name shaved into my precious pubic hair? Does no one appreciate a glorious Amazonian type bush anymore?! Ooh, found the book!” Alex cried and snatched up the text triumphantly.

“I bet I could get the exact address from Iggy,” Ian said with strange finality, “I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna go see him.”

“Wait what?” Alex said when Ian abruptly turned and left. “What just happened?”

* * *

“This is a terrible idea, Ian,” Alex moaned.

“You should have that printed on a T-shirt,” Ian mumbled as he shrugged on one of his older hooded coats. Slipping into his Southside skin was much easier than slipping into the Southside frame of mind for Ian lately. He was slowly understanding what Lip had been struggling with when he had first left.

“What are you even going to do? Just confront him?”

“No, I just need to see, that’s all. I’m not confronting anybody,” Ian said and readied to set off.

Alex threw her hands up, “fine, let’s go.”

“ _We_ aren’t going anywhere; I’m going alone. You’d stick out in the Southside like a WASPy sore thumb.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a chameleon, I can hang!”

“Jesus.”

“Whatever,” Alex said with a defiant toss of her head, “I’m so not missing this.”

* * *

Alex’s bravado took a sharp dip the deeper they went into Dre’s neighbourhood. It was a little past midday and it was bright and sunny, but it did nothing to staunch her growing paranoia. Ian moved with easy, almost heedless, purpose while she kept glancing about, sure they were being watched or followed by shadowy individuals. She slipped her arm into the crook of Ian’s elbow and stuck as close to him as he could manage.

Ian eventually paused, “Iggy said he should be around here somewhere.”

They both looked around. It was a fairly busy neighbourhood with people loitering everywhere and a few young men congregating at the corners. There were mostly stores in that area and people went about their business, apparently not paying any mind to the young couple. All they knew about Dre was that he was a black guy with dreadlocks and at the moment, there seemed to be no shortage of guys fitting that description about.

“It’s going to take a game of _Clue_ to figure out who he is,” Alex grumbled. “This is impossible. We should go back.”

“Dre, what’s happening, baby?!” A man called out as he rode past on a bicycle. He received a loud hoot of response from a tall guy with dreadlocks who was standing on the opposite corner.

Alex cleared her throat when Ian looked down on her. “Yes, well then, there you are. You’re welcome.”

They took a minute to take Dre in as he stood on the corner greeting people and talking easily with the ones who stopped by. It didn’t seem as if he was dealing, since nothing changed hands whenever someone stopped by, which happened frequently. Ian didn’t see anything particularly impressive. Alex wasn’t of a similar mind. Dre laughed at some joke his latest visitor told him and she was just a little dazzled by his smile.

“Wow,” she said appreciatively, but quickly course corrected when Ian glared down at her, “not like _wow-_ wow obviously. I mean clearly he’s hideous.”

Ian rolled his eyes, “come on, we can’t stand here forever.”

Alex squeaked a little as Ian took off towards Dre and she quickly ran to catch up.

Dre, for his part, had been wondering when these two fools were going to make up their minds and do something instead of gawking at him all day. He had received word early about strangers on the block. No one knew them; they didn’t look strung out and desperate like the typical newcomer who came looking for him. They didn’t seem like cops either and for the first time in a long time, Dre was entirely at sea about a new development. He raised an eyebrow at their approach—they seemed so bright and shiny—and waited to see what they had to say. To his surprise, and to the evident surprise of the tall young man with her, it was the girl who spoke up first.

“Hello!” she said cheerfully.

Dre’s eyebrow hitched even higher. “Are you lost?” he asked, “are you looking for a Trader Joe’s?”

“Ooh, is there one around here? I’m out of Specu—oh you were being sardonic, ha got it,” she giggled nervously. She was a mess around hot guys. “Actually, you came highly recommended and we were hoping to purchase some of your finest marijuana.”

The near identical looks of befuddled horror on Ian and Dre’s faces were things of beauty. Dre looked around and then looked to the heavens to see if there were drones flying about. He could not make heads or tails of this. Malibu Ken had done nothing but glare at him since he arrived on the spot and Barbie looked as if she thought she was at the farmers’ market. No way they were law enforcement, Chicago PD was far too savvy to send in some wide-eyed waif and an oversized Chucky doll to trap him. So what the hell was going on?”

“I came highly recommended? On what, Yelp?” Dre asked dryly, “look, not every black dude on a street corner is dealing, alright, and I have to say I resent the implication here a little bit. You have thoroughly offended my delicate sensibilities and I’m disinclined to engage with you any further. Good day.”

“Mickey sent us,” Ian finally spoke up, “said you’d give us a good deal.”

“Mickey?” Dre asked in surprise and cocked his head. He stared at Ian for a moment and suddenly the missing puzzle piece fell into place. A tall redhead, bearing Mickey as a reference, who had been nothing but glaring at him since he showed up? It wasn’t that hard to figure out. “Ian, right?” Dre’s smile spread slowly across his face and he almost burst out laughing when Ian stiffened. “Now then, that’s different. Any friend of Mickey’s…”

Alex did not miss the swift change in the atmosphere. Ian was getting tense and Dre looked as if he was more than willing to have some fun at Ian’s expense. She moved quickly to diffuse the charged situation.

“So your delicate sensibilities are no longer offended?” she asked cheekily.

Dre laughed, completely at ease now that he understood the situation, despite the ominous vibes emanating from the redhead. “Luckily, I get over things as easily as I’m offended. Plus, since I trust Mickey with all my heart,” he said with a smile full of mischief, “I know I can trust you. You really need a hook-up?”

“We’re freshmen in college, we need everything ever!”

“Well I stand by what I said earlier—never stereotype—but I might know someone who can help you out,” he nodded towards the other corner, “you see that corner store, _the Grab and Go_ , go get some coffee in there. You should be able to get what you need,” Dre turned his attention from a confused Alex to a now stone-faced Ian. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No,” Ian ground out and turned away to the store, dragging Alex behind him.

When they entered the empty store, they found a young woman bearing a strong resemblance to Dre sitting behind the counter. She looked up from her magazine and stared at the young couple with deep suspicion.

“Can I help you? Are you looking for the Pottery Barn?” The resemblance was really striking.

“Dre told us to buy some coffee here?” Alex ventured bravely.

Drea raised an eyebrow, then her index finger indicating that they wait a moment so she could dial Dre. When he answered, she did not mince words. “Nigga are you for real?”

“Bitch, give them the got-damn coffee and stop tying up my phone!”

“Who you calling a bitch?! Call me a bitch again and see if I don’t come out there and snatch them raggedy dreads off your big head, fool!” she blasted before she hung up the phone and smiled sweetly at the couple. “One coffee coming up,” Drea sang out as she busied herself beneath the counter.

“So is Dre your brother?” Alex asked and Drea’s head popped up abruptly.

“Brother? What do you mean by that?” she asked, her tone sharp.

“Um, it’s just that you guys look so much alike.”

“Oh so that’s how it is? All black people look alike, is that it?!”

Alex nearly fell apart while Ian rubbed a tired hand over his face. Alex sputtered, “no, oh god, of course not! I was just—”

Drea burst out laughing, “girl chill, I was just messing with you. I swear to god, nervous white people are my personal reparations. Here,” she plopped down a covered coffee cup on the counter, “Big Head says it’s on the house. First time’s always free.”

When they emerged from the store, Dre was across the street waiting for them. Ian walked away, determined to get out of the neighbourhood before he did something monumentally stupid and dangerous because of Dre’s smarmy, knowing grin. He wasn’t about to make a clean escape as Dre fell in step with them.

“Gotta make sure you guys get out safe. This isn’t the best neighbourhood, especially for strangers,” Dre said and searched his jacket pocket for a business card. He presented it to Alex, “once in a while I’ll make an exception and make house calls for special customers; meet you someplace that’s comfortable for both of us.”

The plain white card simply said “the pharmacist” with a number underneath. Alex almost laughed, “I thought only doctors made house calls.”

“I could be a doctor too; depends on what ails you,” Dre’s beamed at her, making her flush red. He then looked over at Ian, “I’d give you a card too but I have a feeling you won’t be using my services after this. Still, you can find me through your friend…”

“Alex,” she filled in.

“Charmed,” he smiled at her again, “you can find me through Alex or Mickey. I don’t want you to worry about him either. I’ll be standing in that gap for you.”

Dre turned back laughing as Alex shoved Ian hard down the road to stop him from turning around and swinging on Dre. How they managed to get out of the neighbourhood in one piece, Alex would never know.

* * *

“This weed is ridiculous,” Alex sighed from her kitchen floor. Ian lay beside her, his head right next to hers though he faced the opposite direction.

Ian couldn’t deny that; Dre’s blend was insanely strong. “I think I can see my house from here,” he whispered and they both dissolved into manic giggles. “You think Mickey loves him for his weed?” he asked after their laughter had subsided.

“You’re ridiculous too. People have sex without romantic feelings all the time. You’re doing it now for crying out loud.”

“Don’t remind me,” Ian took another biting hit of the blunt and handed it to Alex, “why is everything so complicated?”

“Oh Avril; says the guy who doesn’t have to deal with being born in an entirely wrong body.”

“You know Frank had thoughts about that. Then again, he has thoughts on everything.”

“Oh god, Frank thoughts…this should be fun,” Alex coughed and wondered if she would ever be able to get up from her floor again.

“He thinks people are looking at it all wrong, that it’s not a case of being born in the wrong body per se.”

“Really now?”

“He says…he says…” Ian trailed off, totally losing his train of thought while the dots on Alex’s ceiling rearranged themselves into constellations and happy animals. Mickey’s face appeared and he smiled goofily at it.

“What’d he say?”

“What did who say?”

“God, I hate you right now,” Alex moaned, “Frank, about transitioning or whatever.”

“Oh, he says it’s like being a tree, but that tree isn’t supposed to just be a tree, it’s destined for other things, like being a really awesome table.”

“Oh my god.”

“But most people,” Ian rallied and continued, “can’t see anything but a tree and want to force it to stay a tree even though the tree and smarter people know that the tree is meant for further development.”

“Did he really compare transitioning to furniture making?” Alex laughed, “holy shit, I’m fucked up and I’m Ikea. I don’t even know if that’s insanely offensive bullshit or weirdly deep.”

“That is Frank’s modus operandi,” Ian snickered, “although, now that I think about it, that might have been his argument for deforestation too.”

“Oh my god,” Alex moaned again before she and Ian erupted into laughter again. Maybe never leaving the kitchen floor wasn’t much a bad idea.

* * *

“You’ll never guess who came to see me yesterday.”

Mickey had just come home and changed his clothes. He had groaned when he saw Dre’s name appear on his phone, afraid that he’d have to haul ass out there again to collect Sal’s drugs. But Dre wasn’t bearing news of a filled prescription, much to Mickey’s surprise.

“Who?”

“You should know him,” Dre continued gleefully, “said you recommended him and all. Tall, ginger motherfucker; kept mean mugging me the whole time like I took his.”

Mickey’s blood went cold, “no.”

Dre laughed out loud, “I gave him a pass this time, because he’s your boy and I know you guys are all twisted up and real messy right now, but teach him. I can’t have no skinny white boys stepping to me on my turf, man. You know this. I like drama but not like that.”

Mickey felt like giving up on life. “It won’t happen again; I’ll take care of it.”

* * *

The effects of the weed were long gone and Ian had managed to make it off of Alex’s kitchen floor after all. He was back home, just in from his run and still trying to burn off  the adrenaline from his Dre-induced anger. Now he had a face to go with the name and fuel his paranoia. His brain was having a hell of a time interspersing images of Dre’s smug face with those of Mickey and Dre being locked together in the worst way. He couldn’t shake them no matter what he did. He started some push-ups and became so intent on them, he almost ignored the pounding at the door.

“Ian, are you in there?!” Mickey’s voice had him scrambling to his feet to get to the door. He opened it to reveal a furious Mickey Milkovich glaring at him from beneath the hood of his camo jacket. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

Ian easily guessed what this visit was about. He snorted and walked away, heading to his kitchen for something to drink. “He certainly was eager to tell you.”

Mickey followed Ian in, closing the door behind him. “I can’t believe I even have to say this to you. Don’t fuck around with Dre. Stay as far away from him as humanly possible!”

Ian glared at Mickey as he chugged his water. “Why? Did I upset your boyfriend?”

“Oh my god, it’s like you’re on a campaign to give me a stroke. Dre is not a nice guy to mess around with—”

“Doesn’t stop you from doing it!”

“Jesus fuck, he’s a dangerous dude who has an image to uphold. You can’t go into his neighbourhood glaring at him like you’re some fucking Mother Superior. Do this again and you and him will have problems, which then means me and him would have problems; a situation I would like to avoid all around.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Ian sniffed, “I’m not bothering him or your little arrangement anymore.”

Mickey ran a hand over his face. “Why are you like this?! You’re the one that said—”

“I know what I fucking said!” Ian snapped, though he understood and shared Mickey’s frustration. It only served to make the whole thing worse.

“Stay out of Dre’s neighbourhood, alright? That’s all I came here to say,” Mickey issued his final warning and made to leave, but Ian stopped him again.

“I have to admit that I’m a little surprised. I mean between your tastes for whores and drug dealers, I can’t believe you managed to see me at all,” Ian needled.

Mickey shook his head slowly, “I swear to god, you’re like a crazy person.”

“There are a few things I don’t like to be called,” Ian erupted, “I’m not a whore, I’m not a gold digger, I’m not dumb and don’t call me fucking crazy!”

Mickey chewed on his lower lip as he regarded Ian and took a few measured breaths. “You wanna fight; I see that. I’m not fighting with you tonight. I said what I came to say.”

Ian watched gobsmacked as Mickey headed for the door. It wasn’t a lie, he did want to fight—he needed to expend this frantic energy somehow. That Mickey would seriously think to walk away from him again while he was still in the height of this passion was inconceivable and, frankly, Ian was having none of it.

Mickey got as far as opening the door before Ian reached from behind him and slammed it shut again. He stared at Ian’s hand as it held the door shut and his own hand fell away from the knob. Behind him, he could feel the heat radiating off Ian’s body and Ian’s short puffs of breath stirring the hair at the back of his neck.  He wetted his lips and cocked his head slightly. “So, not allowed to leave then?”

In the next moment, there was Ian’s hand on his shoulder, spinning him around and shoving him against the door. Mickey practically bounced off it as he grabbed Ian by his neck and rocked up to meet Ian’s lips the same way he’d been dreaming about for what felt like an eternity. He shrugged off his coat, almost getting his hands trapped behind him as Ian pushed forwards, pinning him against the door and pouring all that frantic, paranoid energy into a devouring kiss. Mickey reached up and held Ian’s head with both hands as Ian gripped his hips and ground against him, making Mickey growl with pleasure. It felt like coming up for air, as if they could finally breathe again. It was Ian who broke the kiss and pulled away. He hitched his thumbs into his sweatpants and boxers and shoved them down.

“Get on your knees,” he ordered and Mickey hit the floor so fast, it was as if he’d had lead weights attached to him.

He didn’t hesitate, taking Ian into his mouth as deeply as he could manage the moment he could. He had missed Ian’s taste, had missed the weight and heat of him in his mouth and against his tongue. He sucked on Ian’s cock hungrily and gracelessly, while Ian groaned and shuddered above him. Ian let him suck and swallow for a while, indulging in the feel of Mickey’s mouth around his cock the same way Mickey was indulging in the taste of him. But Ian didn’t want a blow job—at least not like that.

Ian’s hand curled into a tight fist in Mickey’s hair until the latter was held fast, forced to stop his eager bobbing and keep still. Ian took a moment to steady himself before he rocked forward into Mickey’s mouth. He pulled back and thrust in deeper, careful to hold Mickey’s head steady as he started fucking his mouth a little faster each time.

Mickey relaxed his throat as best as he could and let Ian fuck him, feeling himself grow painfully harder with each deep thrust of Ian’s cock into his mouth. He gripped Ian’s ankles, then slid his hands up Ian’s calves to the back of his thighs until he was groping Ian’s ass while Ian’s hips snapped against his face. He moaned and hummed around the throbbing cock, making Ian shake and stutter as he lost himself in the wet heat of Mickey’s mouth and perversely delighted in the occasional gagging noises that floated up to him and the bite of Mickey’s blunted nails into his ass. Mickey freed one hand to reach down and unzip his jeans. His eyes flicked up to Ian’s face as he squeezed his own aching erection.

“Don’t touch yourself,” Ian ordered thickly and Mickey’s hand quickly made its way back to Ian’s ass.

The taste of pre-come against his tongue made Mickey panic. Did Ian intend to finish like this? Mickey loved this, but he wanted more, especially to tide him over for when he stepped outside that door into cold, harsh reality once again. To spur Ian on further, Mickey locked eyes with him and purposely disobeyed Ian’s order by touching himself again. Suddenly Ian, so hot and heavy in his mouth, was gone. Mickey almost pitched forward from the momentum of Ian yanking away. He coughed a little and wiped his mouth as he waited on his knees for Ian’s next move.

“I told you not to touch yourself,” Ian said before peeling off his T-shirt and stepping out of his sweatpants and underwear, “come here.”

Mickey got to his feet and was immediately grabbed by his sweater and tossed unceremoniously onto the bed. He kicked off his shoes quickly and wriggled out of his socks as Ian moved to straddle him. He yanked off his sweater and T-shirt while Ian worked on his pants and underwear. He lost his breath when Ian’s tongue slowly and deliberately trailed over the length of his cock. Mickey squirmed as Ian lapped briefly at the head of it before Ian nipped at his abdomen and quickly glided his lips up the length of Mickey’s body where Mickey was ready and waiting. Mickey wrapped his legs around Ian’s hips and reached for him, pulling him down into a searing kiss as Ian gripped the back of Mickey’s knee and rutted against him. Too soon and Ian was pulling away again, making Mickey whine from the deprivation.

“That’s what you get,” Ian said, throwing one of Mickey’s favourite teases back at him, “now turn over.”

Mickey complied immediately, grinding his cock against Ian’s sheets for relief, and shuddering when he felt Ian’s hands on the back of his thighs. Ian leaned down and kissed the back of Mickey’s knee up the back of his thigh. Ian’s kisses and touch were feather light and gentle, so the hard bite that came next right beneath his buttock caught Mickey by surprise.

“Fuck!” he cried out above the groan of the bed and hissed when Ian shoved his legs further apart and sucked hard below the juncture of Mickey’s thigh. “Fuck,” Mickey exhaled slowly as Ian’s hands kneaded his buttocks and found new places to nip and suck and bruise. He reached back to grip Ian’s hair as Ian roughly spread his buttocks and swiped a firm tongue across his opening.

“You got all prettied up just to come warn me off?” Ian murmured, pulling back to trail kisses up Mickey’s ass to the dip of his lower back. Mickey had been dressed down, far away from Mobster mode, but Ian could smell that special, expensive cologne and the light scent of Mickey’s body wash. He loved all of that, but he loved Mickey’s scent so much more and wished Mickey would believe him when he told him that. He trailed his tongue up the grove of Mickey’s back, following along his spine.

“Just do it,” Mickey begged and arched his hips to grind his ass wantonly against Ian’s erection.

“Do what?” Ian asked innocently, kissing Mickey’s shoulder and rocking forward, rubbing himself into the crook of Mickey’s ass. Mickey glanced over at Ian’s night table, eyeing the lubricant before rocking back against Ian again. Ian almost laughed. He never knew which Mickey would show up during sex sometimes—the one who was all pointed demands and barked orders or the one who seemed too overwhelmed to vocalize exactly what he wanted. Ian grabbed the lube and sat on the back of Mickey’s thighs to keep him still.

There was a brief lull as Ian took his time stroking his cock, slicking himself as he admired the map work of hickeys, bites and bruises stretching across the expanse of Mickey’s back, all over his ass and down the back of his thighs. There was just something both wonderful and ridiculous about it—this big, bad, dangerous mobster, who had skin like milk and bruised like a peach. Ian didn’t want another human being but him leaving marks on that skin, because Mickey’s was his in the same way he was Mickey’s and he was fully intent on reclaiming him.

Mickey’s hands twisted in the sheets when he felt the warming lube drip onto his lower back and then over his ass. He buried his face when Ian spread him with one hand while the other dispensed the lube. Ian loved exposing and admiring him—the weird fucker—and Mickey still hadn’t gotten used to the idea of someone being that intensely into him, physically or otherwise, and being so shamelessly demonstrative about it. He lifted his head when Ian’s fingers pressed into him and his own hand slid towards his cock once again.

“Don’t,” Ian warned him again, freezing Mickey’s actions, “I’ll get you off when I’m ready.”

The preparation was swift even though the ceremony leading up to it hadn’t been. Ian wanted Mickey just loose enough and no more. When Ian then tossed the lube aside and sank into him, there was no period of adjustment before Ian was pulling back and slamming forward again. Clearly Ian’s brand of punishment wasn’t over and Mickey couldn’t have been happier about.

Mickey gripped the sheets in both hands as Ian fucked him hard and fast into the protesting bed, and focused on Ian’s hand bracing next to his face in an effort to control his body a little better and stave off his orgasm. He couldn’t help the pathetic moans and whines that got punched out of him with each thrust of Ian’s body and he couldn’t help gasping Ian’s name. There was no way it had only been two weeks. It felt as if they had been apart forever and had been slowly losing their minds in the eternity they had been apart.

Ian sat up, pulling Mickey back with him until the latter was on all fours in the bed. The sweet relief of the bed against his aching cock was gone, but Ian’s hand was fisting in his hair and there was an iron grip on his hip and Ian was pounding into him like the world was about to end. Fuck, it probably was the way things were going, but Mickey couldn’t bring himself to care. He gasped, then swore when Ian slapped him hard on the ass as he fucked him. Then a moment later there was another stinging slap over the same area, which Ian immediately soothed by massaging it tenderly. Mickey half laughed, half sobbed beneath the onslaught  of it all and went mindless until Ian was tugging him back flush against him and batting his hand away from tugging at his cock again.

“You’re the fucking worst at this,” Ian laughed into the crook of Mickey’s neck and finally obliged in jerking him off. To Ian’s surprise, Mickey stopped him and actually pulled away and off of Ian’s cock, leaving him bereft for the moment. Before Ian could protest, Mickey turned to press against him and kiss him deeply.

“I kind of missed doing that,” Mickey admitted bashfully, and Ian wondered if Mickey had any idea of what a sweet and shy Mickey did to him.

Ian kissed him again, hugging him close before squeezing Mickey’s ass so he could press impossibly closer. He then hooked his hands behind Mickey’s knees and sent him sprawling backwards towards the foot of the bed. He was inside Mickey again in a flash and the ferocity was back, bolstered by the unexpected tender moment.

“You’re mine,” Ian panted and Mickey reached back and gripped the cool metal at the foot of the bed, “…not Dre’s, not fucking Sal’s, not anybody’s but mine.”

“Yes, fuck…” Mickey moaned.

“Say you’re mine,” Ian demanded with his body and his words, and Mickey mewled as his body bowed off the bed.

“Fuck yes; I’m yours,” he confessed and let out a strangled cry when Ian grasped his cock. But Mickey was beyond that. He caught Ian by surprise again when he grabbed Ian’s hand and guided it to his neck. “I’m yours.”

Ian’s rhythm stuttered for a moment before he resumed his pace. He gripped the foot of the bed for leverage and began squeezing Mickey’s throat while their climax built. “You’re mine,” he said brokenly.

Mickey gripped Ian’s arm and tugged frantically at his cock as he grew hypoxic. His eyes rolled back as he came hard, spilling hard into his hand as he clenched and pulsed around Ian’s cock. Ian came with a strangled shout and released Mickey. Ian rolled to the side, panting, while Mickey coughed and sputtered for breath.

“Jesus,” Ian wheezed out, making them both laugh. They spent some time lying quietly, trying to catch their breaths and get their hearts to slow. Ian rolled onto his side to face Mickey and tenderly stroked the side of his face, making the man sigh with contentment. Ian gently rubbed his thumb over the already reddening skin and shuffled closer. Mickey turned his head and stared back at him. “Mick, I know we can’t—”

Mickey climbed on top of him and quieted him with a kiss, “just shut up for a minute,” Mickey murmured against Ian’s lips. Ian sat up and pressed Mickey back into the pillows and kept him there for the rest of the night.

When Ian woke up in the early morning hours, he was alone, tucked into bed with the lights all off. He looked around blearily, though he already knew Mickey was long gone, doing god knows what, god knows where. He sighed and hugged Mickey’s pillow. At least he had that smelling great again.

* * *

He spoke to Mickey only briefly that morning. Mickey had answered his third call and Ian could immediately tell that the man was neck deep in gangland business. It made Ian’s blood pressure spike even though Mickey’s voice had gentled for a moment and had assured Ian that he would call him when he got home. Ian had fretted all day, unable to relax until Mickey texted him at three in the morning to say he had gotten back in safely. Ian didn’t think he could ever get used to this.

He finally saw Mickey the following day. Mickey had come in off the street in the late afternoon, clad in suit and heavy trench coat and coming over all business. Clearly he still wasn’t done for the day. Ian tried to focus on his books since they weren’t alone. Iggy and Joey were hanging around and Sal was in the nearby bathroom. Mickey said nothing to him as he came into the kitchen, cognizant of Sal’s closeness. He simply nodded to Ian and retrieved a beer from the fridge.

Ian’s eyes followed Mickey, despite his best efforts to play it completely cool. He could see glimpses of the bruising from his hands peeking out above Mickey’s collar. It sent his mind down a dangerous path. He knew about the bite mark on Mickey’s shoulder, and the ones on his ass and the back of his thighs. There were the imprints of his fingers on Mickey’s hips  and the graphic replay in Ian’s head and the whole thing felt intensely arousing. He shifted uncomfortably on the stool and tore his eyes away to keep his face from burning. Sal was shuffling around in the bathroom, about to come out and Mickey decided to take off before he was forced to see Ian and Sal interacting again.

“I’ve got some more things to take care of,” Mickey said softly as he fussed around with Ian’s books and avoided making eye contact, “but I’ll be back to pick you up later.”

Later that night, Mickey kept his promise to pick him up. They hadn’t even made it out the gate for a minute before Ian blurted out what he had been holding in for the past couple of days.

“Don’t fuck anyone else. Don’t fuck Dre, or Svetlana or any randoms in Boys Town; fucking wait for me! I don’t care how long it takes for us to figure this shit out. Wait.”

Mickey sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Yeah, okay.”

Ian looked at him in disbelief. “‘Yeah, okay’? Why is that all you ever say?! Don’t just say okay when people are making insane demands; Jesus H. Christ, Mickey.”

“So you don’t actually want me to wait?”

“Of course I want you to wait. What did I just fucking say?!”

Mickey glanced over at Ian as he drove and he couldn’t keep back the smile that was blooming on his face. “Jesus, of all the fucking people on this planet,” Mickey shook his head, “you’re going to drive me fucking crazy, you know that?”

“Maybe, but I’ll make it worth your while.”

* * *

The sudden surge of activity within Sal’s organization was a worrying thing. Ian wasn’t sure what the norm was but he knew this couldn’t be it. He tried to dig for some information but even Iggy was tight-lipped. As a result, he was left with another restless, sleepless night until Mickey’s text came in. The moment after he heard that familiar buzz, he was on the line.

“Hey,” Mickey greeted him, “why aren’t you sleeping? It’s almost four.”

Ian ignored that ridiculous question. “Where were you?”

“Why don’t you just LoJack me and save us both the time and the grief?”

“Sorry,” Ian said sheepishly. He trusted Mickey to an extent, but it was hard to shake the paranoia. He didn’t know for how long or even if Mickey would obey his ridiculous edict. He wanted to believe that for Mickey, their relationship was far more than just sex, but without the insurance of it, Ian felt the connection was tenuous. For all of his significant relationships so far, sex was the contract that had sealed them and his body was the commodity he had traded upon. They were still gun shy about taking the plunge again, and if he couldn’t offer Mickey the only asset he had, what was holding Mickey to him?

“Why are you calling me, Ian?”

“Just wanted to talk.”

“Fuck you, you just want to talk,” Mickey snorted rudely.

“What, you don’t believe me? Why?”

“Because I don’t just want to talk either.”

That small bit of unexpected honesty made the light bulb went off in Ian’s head. It was the one thing they hadn’t gotten around to doing. Technically it wasn’t sex—sex-adjacent perhaps—and if it wasn’t technically sex, then technically they couldn’t fuck it up and get caught. In Ian’s  grasping mind, it was a totally workable loophole.

“You’re right, I don’t really want to talk right now,” Ian said suddenly, “I just want you.”

“Huh?”

“I’m so hard right now.”

“Wait, what is happening?” Mickey asked, genuinely confused by the abrupt shift in tone.

“I’m trying to have phone sex with you, you moron,” Ian huffed, “it gets less sexy the more you have to explain it. Now say something back.”

“Oh,” Mickey said, still at sea. “Um, how hard?”

“So hard I think I’m about to explode,” Ian said, dropping his voice the way Mickey liked. There was nothing but silence at the other end of the line.

“I don’t know what to say to you,” Mickey finally admitted and Ian had to laugh at his bemusement.

“Have you never done this before?”

“No, who the fuck am I supposed to have done this shit with?” Mickey said snippily, “what am I supposed to say?!” This felt like far too much pressure for someone to get their rocks off.

“Whatever you want,” Ian said soothingly, “like if we were together right now, what would you want to do? It doesn’t have to be poetic or anything.”

Mickey thought it over, “well I guess I’d want to be sucking you off…”

“Yeah?” Ian answered, surprised by the candour. “Really?”

“I like blowing you,” Mickey confessed, “I don’t know why, I usually hate doing that shit, but I like it with you. Right now? I don’t know what I want more, you up my ass or down my throat,” Mickey said and laughed at his daring admission. It was the sexiest sound Ian had heard all day.

“I get to choose then,” Ian said, “I like when you blow me first. It gets me going so much. You’re fucking good at it.”

“I am?” Mickey asked, inhaling the praise.

“You’re so fucking good; you’re perfect. You have no idea how good your mouth feels around my cock, Mick,” Ian inhaled deeply as he stuck his hands into his boxers, his mind’s eye working over time. “I could come just from that.” Fuck, he could come just from this.

“But you’ll still fuck me?” Mickey reminded Ian as he gave himself a firm stroke from root to tip, “I need you to fuck me.”

“How do you want it?”

“Any way you want to give it to me,” Mickey said, “I love your cock, Ian. I love what it does to me.”

“My cock loves you,” Ian said without a trace of irony, “and I’ll give it to you, good and hard, the way you love it.”

“Mmm,” Mickey moaned and it sent shivers up Ian’s spine. Mickey needed only to make that sound for the rest of their lives and Ian would be golden.

The conversation fell away as they each focused instead on the other’s harsh breathing and whispered swears. When Mickey came, Ian wasn’t far behind and for the moment, all he could think was that it was the greatest loophole in the world.

* * *

Except the next day, Mickey didn’t say a thing about it when he came to collect Ian to take him to the pool house. He had been waiting for Mickey’s cue to know how to play this new turn to their relationship and Mickey was giving him nothing to work with. Ian sat gingerly in the car, uncertain about what was at play. He wasn’t sure if Mickey was regretting it, simply worried about Mob issues or was compartmentalizing their phone sex into a neat little box somewhere to be opened at a time he deemed appropriate. Ian took a breath and prepared to launch an investigation only for Mickey to shoot him a warning look. He clammed up immediately.

So late that night when Mickey texted that he was home, Ian merely said “thank you” and put the phone back on the night table. A few minutes later, his phone rang.

“You didn’t call me,” a tired sounding Mickey accused.

“I wasn’t sure you wanted me to.”

“How are you not always exhausted the way you over think shit all the time?” Mickey snorted. “Of course, I want you to call…when it’s time for it.” Mickey tacked on and Ian grinned at his ceiling in relief. Compartmentalizing, he should have known.  He was pulled back to the present by Mickey clearing his throat self consciously. “So…can we talk?”


	18. Hot for Teacher

The club was packed, bodies bouncing off the walls as was the norm. It was hard for Mickey to focus his eyes on any one thing as the colours flashed and the music blared, making him antsy and uncomfortable. It had been a different experience when he had been there for Ian; there had been nowhere else for him to look but up at the gyrating redhead on stage. The universe had shrunk to an Ian-sized entity the way it always did when Gallagher was around, but Ian wasn’t here, and Mickey was on an entirely different mission.

It took a while before Mickey saw him. He was tall, lean and graceful—fully aware of his body and the power it held. He had a shock of red hair too. That helped a little, Mickey supposed, though it was obvious it wasn’t natural and was several shades too orange for Mickey’s exact taste. Still, that was neither here nor there. He wasn’t going to find a perfect Ian replica and this guy was the closest Mickey suspected he would come for the night. When the man came off stage, Mickey quickly wended his way through the crowd to get to him.

“Hey!” Mickey yelled above the music. The guy must have spotted Mickey making his way to him because he turned immediately, sultry smirk already in place.

“Hey,” the man purred back and took Mickey in from head to toe. He shifted closer, stopping just short of pressing his bare skin against Mickey’s black button down shirt. “I’m Tom.”

Mickey wasn’t interested in names or pleasantries. “How much?” he asked and Tom seemed a little taken aback by his forwardness.  There was a brief interplay of expressions on Tom’s face as he contemplated how to play it, whether or not to play coy and feign ignorance about the nature of Mickey’s indecent proposal. He could see Mickey’s eyes wandering already, so he quickly decided to skip the games.

“Two-fifty,” Tom said before he trailed a hand up the front of Mickey’s shirt, “I’m giving you a special deal.”

It was Mickey’s turn to look surprised. He swatted Tom’s hand away as if it was radioactive. “What, no, not me, him!” Mickey said and nodded to a couch at the near corner of the club where Sal sat sipping his drink and gawking at the scantily clad dancers.

“You could have mentioned that a little earlier,” Tom grumbled and squinted hard at Sal. He immediately made a revision. “Six hundred.”

“Six hun—what the fuck? I want you to fuck him not take him on a world tour! It was two hundred and fifty thirty seconds ago.”

“He looks sweaty. I don’t normally do sweaty,” Tom said.

“You’re covered in body glitter; you’re in no position to judge,” Mickey huffed but finally nodded and led the go-go dancer over to Sal.

Sal’s eyes lit up as Tom approached and Mickey saw no need to make introductions. Mickey sat on the far end of the couch, watching closely as Tom tossed the cheap lei around Sal’s neck and introduced himself. Sal looked delighted as Tom began his lap dance and Mickey crossed his fingers that this might be the one. He had been taking Sal out and throwing all the warm bodies he could at him, hoping something would stick. He had been praying that he could replicate whatever it was that was binding Sal to Ian and that his boss would make that rainbow connection with someone new.

For the life of him, Mickey just couldn’t figure out why Sal was clinging so hard to Ian. Sal had never stayed with a lover this long. He didn’t know if it was Ian’s looks or youth, his attitude—what was it? Mickey was left having to explore every parameter as he sought a sacrificial lamb to take Ian’s place. So far, it had been a bust. Sal indulged sometimes, but in the end, everything still led right back to Ian.

“My prince, he’s so good to me,” Sal informed Tom about Mickey, “I’d share the wealth, but this isn’t his scene.”

Tom cast an eye over at the fidgeting Mickey who was momentarily distracted by another dancer passing by. Not his scene…right. “Whatever you say,” Tom said airily before he leaned down to whisper into Sal’s ear about the Champagne room. Sal readily accepted and Mickey was left alone on the couch, crossing his fingers and anxiously waiting for the outcome.

* * *

Tom was not going to be the new love of Sal’s life and Mickey was the only one left bitterly disappointed. He poured Sal into the front passenger seat of the Escalade and started the drive home, tamping down the irritation and frustration he felt. How long was this going to take? Was he going to find replacement first or would Sal get bored and cut Ian loose on his own? Mickey was at a loss as to how to hurry it along. He just knew he wanted Ian out, especially now.

There was too much going on and things were quickly getting crazier. Fowler and his agents had been leaning on the Outfit hard lately, making things uncomfortable and suffocating all the way up the chain of command. The feds would sweep in, arresting everyone they could on pettiest of charges. It didn’t matter how low on the totem pole they were; if they were within six degrees of separation from the Outfit, it was open season. Sometimes the charges would stick; most times it appeared to be catch-and-release.

Mickey didn’t know if it was some kind of fucked Machiavellian scheme on Fowler’s part, but the quick releases of some of the associates and mobsters were breeding doubt amongst the Mob. A quick release meant a deal had probably been cut, and if a deal had been cut, then someone was snitching. Fowler had been hitting closer to home with more and more accuracy lately which meant someone was singing. Sal was more paranoid than ever and he was running the Milkoviches and the made men ragged, hunting down rats and meting out punishment. But then it wasn’t just Sal, it was the whole Mob freaking out and Mickey just wanted Ian as far away from this mess as possible.

“Sal,” Mickey said softly, rousing the groggy man.

“Hmm?”

“You really not tired of Gallagher yet?”

“Is it the drugs, or did we not already have this conversation?” Sal groaned and rubbed at his eyes.

“Yeah,” Mickey began cautiously, “and it was a little weird then, but it’s really fucking weird now. I mean, you’re never with someone this long.”

Sal let out a small huff of laughter. “What can I tell you? It’s that old black magic that’s got me, maybe. It’s the thunderbolt, you know. That’s what the old guys call it.”

“You really think he’s into you?” Mickey asked suddenly before hastily adding, “I don’t mean any disrespect or anything. I mean, don’t you ever wonder if he feels the same way?”

Sal’s laugh was short and humourless. “You don’t think I own a mirror?” he asked Mickey, “you don’t think I know what I am? I know where my appeal lies for boys like him and it’s not in my face or my sparkling personality, I can tell you much. If I had to rely on genuine affection to blow my load, I’d have to learn to suck my own dick,” he chuckled again, dark and soft, and fished in his jacket for a cigarette. “My mother loved me,” he continued and then shrugged, “after her, who the fuck knows…maybe no one.”

“So if you don’t think he’s into you, why stick with him so long? Why not move on to something new?”

“I like seeing you with that Mustang of yours,” Sal said, seemingly veering off tangent, “you look good in it; very James Dean. I like the way you love your cars too. You spend so much goddamned time and energy on them; I couldn’t do it. Then you just get in a drive. It’s a beautiful thing,” Sal mused as he watched the dark scenery slip by. “You ever stop to wonder if those cars want to take your ass anywhere? Maybe they don’t feel like going wherever the fuck you decide you want to go that day. But you don’t think about that, do you? Because it doesn’t fucking matter what a car thinks or wants; it’s about the feeling you get out of it. As long as it gives you that feeling, serves its purpose, you don’t mind keeping it. You don’t mind spending time, energy and money on it. You get what I’m saying?”

“Gallagher’s the car?” Mickey shook his head. “The way you talk about him sometimes, I swear to god. It’s like you don’t think he’s a person. He’s not a thing, Sal.”

Sal was amused, “you’re offended? Sensitive little shit all of a sudden, aren’t you? Wait until you have to start buying affection, then everything and everyone is a thing, a commodity. Everybody is just a walking dollar sign, some are just a lot bigger than others.”

“So you’re still getting what you need out of Gallagher?”

“I am and it’s a rare fucking feeling. So I’m going to wring it dry, and maybe then I’ll move along.”

* * *

“Sal wants to see ya.”

Mickey could tell from the way Ian’s lips hitched upwards and his eyes softened that he hadn’t registered a thing Mickey had said. His heart sped up and he licked his lower lip nervously, pulling Ian’s attention to them and making the green eyes darken. It had only been a few days since the start of their new arrangement and it already felt like they were due for a fuck up. Phone sex was a whole new world for Mickey and he loved it the same way he loved everything Ian brought to him. Still, it was getting him more worked up rather than taking the edge off and he was craving Ian’s touch. Given the way Ian was looking at him now, he could tell Ian was in the same boat.

“You want to come in for a minute?”

As always, could there be a worse idea? Mickey shifted uncertainly and didn’t step across the threshold. He didn’t say no either, which was Ian’s cue to reach for his tie.

“I thought we agreed we weren’t doing this,” Mickey inhaled sharply as Ian pulled them flush together so he could close the door behind  him. Ian pushed him against the door and leaned into him.

“We didn’t actually make an agreement about anything,” Ian said as he ghosted his lips over Mickey’s, along his jaw line to his earlobe.

“The phone thing…”

“Is hot, but I figure we need something a little more tactile,” Ian said against the column of Mickey’s throat as his hand massage Mickey’s crotch. His lips found Mickey’s again and they both sighed in contentment as they surrendered to the pull. The kiss deepened and Ian contemplated the task of working through the fifty layers of Mickey’s suit and decided to just squeeze his ass instead. Clearly the action triggered something perilous, because the next moment, there were sirens going off and Ian jumped back in fright. “What the fuck?!”

“Oh,” Mickey croaked hoarsely and searched for his phone. He turned off the alarm, “that’s my signal that I’ve officially been up here too long. We need to go.”

Ian looked at him in stupefaction. “You…that was a—that was an alarm for us? You set a sex alarm?!” Ian burst out laughing, “you dork, oh my fucking god! How are you even real?!”

Mickey chewed his inner cheek and watched with narrowed eyes as his idiot doubled over, laughing so hard he was wheezing. “Can we just go please?”

Ian was still laughing long after they had left his apartment and Mickey had been slowly reddening the entire time. “Are you going to laugh at me all the way to the fucking house?”

“I’m going to laugh at you forever. You are the most ridiculous person alive.”

“I’m just trying to keep this shit together,” Mickey grumbled, though he knew he should have just stayed in the car and texted if he had really wanted to avoid trouble.

“I know, I know, I’m just kind of really horny,” Ian sheepishly admitted, echoing Mickey’s own thoughts. They paused at a light and he reached over and rested a hand on Mickey’s thigh. “Like stupidly, crazily, ridiculously horny,” he said as his hand hitched higher with each word, “kind of makes it hard to think, you know?”

Mickey swallowed convulsively as Ian’s hand burned through the material of his pants. He hadn’t set an alarm for this. They found an empty cul-de-sac, parked, climbed into the backseat and spent a few fast, furious minutes getting each other off with their hands. There wasn’t time or patience for much else.

“You’re an asshole,” Mickey panted when he made his way back to the driver’s seat and tried to straighten his askew tie and smooth out his suit. Ian had an easier time of it, with his jeans and T-shirt, and simply ran his fingers through his hair to undo the damage.

“I know,” Ian agreed and grinned at Mickey, just relieved that a little of the edge was off. Mickey glared at him before giving up the battle with both his tie and Ian, and slowly grinned back. They really had been overdue for a fuck up.

* * *

“What the fuck were you doing, pushing the car here?” Sal asked Mickey as he took in the rumpled young man.

“Had to change a tire,” Mickey lied and squirmed as Sal attempted to smooth him out. “Will you stop that shit? I’m home for the night anyway.”

Sal sighed over the folly of youth, “respect the goddamned suits. Now get the fuck out of here.” He closed the door behind him and turned to find Ian lounging in the armchair by the window. “You in a good mood today?”

“When am I not in a good mood?” Ian asked pointedly.

Sal shrugged and took a seat on the edge of the bed closest to Ian. “I don’t know. Feels like you haven’t been so nice to the old man lately.”

“You’re imagining things. I’m as nice to you as I can possibly be.”

Sal remained unconvinced but decided to move on. “Look, about Valentine’s Day, I need a rain check on it. Linda’s hospital is having some kind of benefit and she’s co-chairing. I’ve got to do my husbandly  duties. Gotta put on my face and play the part every once in a while, you know? But I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ian said, “I don’t really do the Valentine’s thing. It’s another dumb, over-commercialized holiday. We can skip it.”

“Alright,” Sal rubbed his bottom lip and contemplated Ian silently for a minute.

“What?” Ian asked suspiciously.

“Let me ask you something, what do you even see in a ruin of a man like me? Why would you even give me a second look?”

Ian was surprised by the question and straightened up in his chair. He looked at Sal for a moment, wondering if the man was serious or if there was some kind of trap in the words. In the end, Ian decided on a little honesty.

“I have a thing for older guys,” he confessed, “I can’t really explain it beyond that. A friend of mine thinks I’m full to the brim with daddy issues.”

Sal laughed, weirdly comforted by the frankness. “Well, that would explain a lot, I guess.”

Ian frowned at him, “I don’t think it does. I reject that theory completely, though to be honest, I do tend to ignore reality sometimes until I have no choice,” Ian scrunched his face, “but I can’t accept that it’s that simple, that whatever issues I have are that reductive. I refuse to give my piece of shit father that much power over my life.”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s not such a bunk theory after all. Maybe we’re all just little boys chasing after our daddies, who knows? When I saw you up on that stage, I swear to the Holy Mother that the last thing I was thinking of was my dearly departed father, but now? You remind me of him more and more every day.”

Ian’s raised an eyebrow, “I remind you of your dad? That’s fucked up, Sal. How do I remind you of him?”

It was the eyes, Sal had realized fairly early on. In truth, Ian looked nothing like his father, who had been a burly bear of a man—the template on which his own body was built. But his father had had the most expressive eyes, and when Sal had been a child, they had been filled with hope and pride over Sal’s limitless potential. His father had loved him then, Sal was sure. The older Sal got, however, the more rapidly that potential dwindled. He wasn’t a scholar, he wasn’t an athlete, he wasn't magnetic or personable enough to pull people to him and become a natural leader. Sal Boerio hadn’t been much of anything and that proud, hopeful look in his father’s eye had bled away so quickly.

It had been devastating for a boy who had worshipped his father, and the more those eyes hardened with bitterness and disappointment, the more desperately Sal had worked to restore himself. It had the effect of a bull in a china shop. The harder he toiled, the more he highlighted his own shortcomings and the more disappointed and disinterested his father became. In the end, the elder Boerio had died leaving behind a son trapped in his own inadequacy, with a desperate need to prove himself more than he was.

It wasn’t until Linda that he had seen that look again—that shining hope, that foolish belief that he was better than his reality. He had approached her with a plan; woo Linda Fischetti, the favoured niece of the powerful Outfit Don and leverage their relationship to catapult up the mafia ranks. He would be someone then. And she had loved him for a minute because he had an odd sort of charm that was short-lived, but effective in the moment. He had made her promises of normalcy, respectability and a safe distance from the scandal and shame of her name. She had looked at him like a white knight and Sal hadn’t realized until then just how much he craved that look, that expansive feeling, how hard he would work to have someone look at him like that forever. So he had proposed, not just because he had ambitions of power and worth, but because that look in her eyes had ensnared him and had buoyed him long enough for him to be a good husband and father—for a minute.

But he couldn’t hide what he was, and what he was at the end of the day was a disappointment. He couldn’t maintain the façade of a loving husband and father, couldn’t remain faithful or discreet, and couldn’t stop that precious look from fading. He hadn’t kept a single of his promises and instead of taking her away from this life, he had pushed her further into it. She had had to claw and scramble for her own brand of independence and respectability. Now, just like with his father, only bitterness and resentment existed between them, and just like with his father, he couldn’t let her go until he had restored himself in her eyes and proven himself a good choice.

Now there was Ian. The last thing he had expected to find in a glaring lights of a stifling gay club was that look. Still something had made Ian look at him like there was that old potential in him and in that moment he had felt as if he was more than what he was once again. Ian’s look had faded so much more quickly than his father’s or Linda’s, and Sal was at a loss as to why. It seemed every time he was around Ian, he did something to hasten the annoyance and hardness in those lovely green eyes. It made Sal’s compulsive need for approval and acceptance kick into an even higher gear.

Ian, he figured, should have been easy to maintain. Gifts, money and attention should have been enough to keep the stars in Ian’s eyes, but that hadn’t been the case. Instead, Ian was now in the same boat with Linda, trapped by Sal’s pathological need to be restored, respected and revered. His father had managed to permanently abandon and escape him. Ian and Linda would not be so lucky.

“It’s the jaw, I think,” Sal said at last and chucked Ian under the chin. “I never realized it before.”

Ian still looked at him sceptically, but honestly didn’t care enough to probe any further.

* * *

There was one other thing that Ian could do for him that his father, Linda or even Mickey couldn’t. As he lay prostrate in bed, feeling his orgasm ripple through his body, he knew he could never willingly relinquish this feeling. Even at his most detached and mechanical, Ian was good, so insanely good and Sal was always left shaken and overawed by it. The moment he shouted his pleasure and his entire body sagged, Ian and the warmth of his body were gone. Sal looked over sleepily to see Ian dumping the condom and pulling on his boxers and jeans.

“Did you get off?” Sal asked, though there was fuck all he could do about it now if Ian said no. Still, he knew from experience what Ian would say.

“Yeah, I’m good; don’t worry about it,” Ian said shortly and quickly started pulling books and papers out of his bag.

“You’re gonna do that shit now? It’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s ten o’ clock and this shit is due tomorrow,” Ian said, “I’ll go downstairs so I don’t bother you.”

“No, stay,” Sal insisted. “I like looking at you sitting there.”

Ian hesitated, but eventually sat down on the bed and scattered his materials around him—forming a literal intellectual barrier—and got to work. It wasn’t much later when there was a hesitant knock on the door.

“What?!” Sal bellowed.

“I need to get something out of Mandy’s drawer!” Mickey yelled back through the door and Ian quickly scrambled off the bed and into the armchair.

“This shit can’t wait until tomorrow?” Sal asked. Why these kids were in such an everlasting hurry, he could never understand.

“You think I’d be knocking if it could wait until—look, can I come in or not?!”

Sal told him to come in and the door opened with comical slowness. Mickey cautiously stuck his head in and peeked, and there was an audible sigh of relief when he saw Ian in the chair and Sal covered up in bed. He stepped in and made a beeline for the chest of drawers in the room, clearly uncomfortable.

Ian tried to focus on his work and went about adding up the two columns of his trial balance. He was off by miles and he groaned out loud in frustration. “Why isn’t this balancing?!”

“Because you need to be a Jew to do that shit,” Sal suggested.

Mickey looked at his paper. “Your accounts receivable is on the wrong side, for starters, and your depreciation…and your revenue.”

Ian was slack jawed. “You know this stuff?!”

Mickey scratched the back of his neck and shrugged uncertainly, “yeah, a little bit I guess.”

“Where the fuck would _you_ learn about that?” Sal laughed.

“Saul taught me,” Mickey retorted, automatically defensive against Sal’s ready ridicule. “Somebody has to maintain the books and stay on top of things until he comes in to check.”

“Better call Saul then,” Sal said, “I told you you’re going to need a Jew.”

Ian ignored Sal and kicked at Mickey’s foot. “Help me, please? I’m drowning here. I don’t understand any of this.”

Mickey faltered at the thought of it, “I-I don’t really know that much. I don’t know the technical terms for shit.”

“Ha, listen to this Mensa meeting over here,” Sal chortled into his pillow, “you know if the blind leads the blind, they’ll both fall into a ditch, right?”

Both young men frowned at the back of Sal’s head, each one monumentally offended on behalf of the other. Ian flipped Sal off before appealing to Mickey again. “Please? Anything you can tell me will help me out.”

Mickey scratched his arm and nodded, “yeah, okay, just give me a few minutes to take care of this for Mandy and I’ll meet you in the basement.”

Ian grinned, nodded and immediately started gathering his things. He looked over at Sal to see if the old man had anything else to say, but thankfully, he was finally out cold.

* * *

“You’re looking at a lot of this stuff backwards,” Mickey explained a couple hours later as they slowly worked through Ian’s homework and tutorials, “okay, this, you would debit debtors, because they’re an asset.”

“But they owe you money; isn’t that bad?”

“Nah, you can’t look it at like you’re just a regular dude on the street. You have to think like a business, and in a business, the rules are a little different. Someone being in debt to you is like having money in the bank, you know? It’s your money, it belongs to you. It’s out there waiting to be collected within the time and regulations you set. If they don’t comply, you’re within your rights to start busting kneecaps…or whatever the legit equivalent of that is.”

“Oh,” Ian breathed and made the corrections. He couldn’t believe how much sense this was making. Mickey and his organized crime analogies were making this seem all so simple and he couldn’t understand how his teacher had made such an absolute mess of things. “So then I’d credit creditors then, which seems obvious now in retrospect.”

“Yeah, because you owe those fuckers; it’s your kneecaps on the line there,” Mickey said, “so yeah, try adding everything up now. On your balance sheet, your liabilities and your capital together should always add up to your assets. If that doesn’t happen, something’s gone wonky somewhere.”

Ian took a breath and started totalling his figures. A minute later he tossed down his pen and raised his hands in exultant triumph. “It fucking balanced! I can’t believe this shit!”

Mickey laughed out loud. “See, the numbers are your friends.”

“Oh my fucking god, you’re the most amazing person alive. I can’t believe I’m understanding this mess! Why didn’t you tell me sooner? You heard me ranting about Woodbine!”

“Yeah, I didn’t know it was this kind of shit,” Mickey admitted, “I thought it was all Wall Street and bonds and Gordon Gekko, I don’t know.”

“That’s the stuff I’m dying to get to. This nickel-and-dime bullshit is killing me. I’ll probably be better at that stuff and I can forget this.”

“You can’t think like that. It’s the nickels and dimes that are literally your money. You got to stay on top of it. If you only focus on the high concept stuff, then some low level shmuck in the trenches will start moving those nickels and dimes from right under your nose. Then by the time it hits you, he’s already in the Bahamas and you’re neck deep in shit.”

“Hmm, I’ll just get someone I trust implicitly,” Ian knocked Mickey’s knee with his, “you can come work for me; you can be my Saul.”

“If you think I won’t rob you blind, you are out of your mind,” Mickey smirked and made Ian’s grin widen.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Ian said and gathered everything together. “You made it look so easy. Why the fuck does Woodbine have tenure when he makes one plus one look so fucking impossible?”

“Had the same problem with my third grade science teacher. They know their shit, they just can’t get it out in a way that you can get it. It’s the fucking worst.”

“Well this has been the most productive study session I’ve had since Suzie Henderson invited me over to try and seduce me. The seduction was a bust, but I learnt so much about amphibian biology.”

Mickey was amused by the thought. “How’d she try?”

“Lots of thigh stroking and accidental cleavage.”

“Ah, so that’s where you got your game,” Mickey teased. “Little Suzie Henderson didn’t know shit. I’d have hit every base and slid home before your bag had hit the floor.”

Ian leaned back and toyed with his beer bottle, “yeah true, but you already know I’m easy for the right person, so…” Ian said suggestively, making Mickey’s face warm. “So Saul, huh? This would explain the random Yiddish.”

“Gotta learn everything you can from everyone you can. You’re less dispensable that way,” Mickey said and immediately regretted it when Ian’s smile dimmed. He quickly tried to wave the unpleasant implication away. “Wanna know what else I can do?”

“What?”

“Read palms. I can tell you your future.”

Ian snorted rudely, “you’re so full of shit.”

“No seriously. Linda’s aunt taught me and Mandy before she went blind for being a ‘strega’,” Mickey said, complete with air quotes, “well she taught Mandy the whole shebang but I know enough.”

“So it was a racket?”

Mickey shrugged, “maybe, maybe not.”

Ian put down his beer bottle, turned to face Mickey and held out his outstretched hand. “Do me.”

Mickey chewed on his lower lip and let that deliberate double entendre slide. He put away his own beer, turned to face Ian and took the proffered hand in his.

“These fucking catcher’s mitts you call hands, I swear to god,” Mickey murmured.

“Well you can’t say you can’t see my future clearly then, can you?”

Mickey rolled his eyes and stroked his thumbs over Ian’s palm. “Alright so, what we have here is your life, love and money lines,” Mickey said, referencing the dark grooves in Ian’s palm.

“Oh for god’s sake.”

“Different readers call them different things, but let’s face it, people only care about how long they’ll live, if they’ll find someone to bang, and if they’ll have enough money to maintain the first two, so that’s what we’re dealing with here.”

Ian propped up his chin with his free hand and continued to look unimpressed.

“So, life line—you had a rough start in life—”

“No! Really? That’s amazing! I bet this will be just as if I had lain in bed and told my life story.”

“Interrupt me again and I’m going to hock a loogie right into the palm of your hand,” Mickey warned.

“My tongue’s been in your ass,” Ian whispered, “just putting that out there, but by all means, threaten me with your spit.”

Mickey sighed heavily and shot Ian a baleful look and decided to go for his own version of shock and awe. “Something major happened when you were a teenager,” Mickey said, taking a stab in the dark. He watched Ian’s expression carefully. Ian’s brow lifted sceptically, but there was no derision forthcoming, so Mickey figured he had hit pay dirt. He squinted at Ian’s hand dramatically. “Maybe the death of a loved one, a financial issue, maybe a medical diagnosis or some kind of trauma?” he said the options softly and slowly as if feeling them out and felt Ian’s hand twitch at the third option. “Yeah, definitely a medical thing.”

Mickey’s cold reading was clearly hitting home, but he could feel Ian tensing and the humour ebbing out of him. Mickey decided to move on. “Good news is, you’re in for a change.”

“I am?” Ian asked, frowning.

“Yeah, you’re getting your life on track. Things will straighten up and improve if you stay out of trouble and on the path for self-improvement.”

“Uh huh…” Ian said slowly, his lips hitching back into a knowing smirk.

“Yes, stay in school, join the grind and you should live a long, fulfilling life.”

“As long as I keep my nose clean and stay away from things like, say, organized crime?”

“Exactly! Same for your money line; not the best starts but you’re due for an improvement,” Mickey said, “you might not end up being stinking rich, but you should be comfortable.”

“I do like being comfortable,” Ian nodded.

“There is a caveat, however. No easy or dirty money; the only money you’ll keep is the money you legitimately earn.”

“You’re starting to sound like an after school special,” Ian said dryly. Mickey made a disgusting hocking noise at the back of his throat and gripped Ian’s hand tightly, and the latter quickly backed down. “Okay, okay!”

“Your love line up until now has been a fucking mess. So many losers,” Mickey moaned, “so many wrinkled, old dicks. SOOO many geriatric viagr—”

“Yes, yes, move on to the part where my luck changes as long as I do something vanilla and non-taboo.”

“Huh, turns out you’re right; maybe you have a touch of the gift.”

“Maybe the gift is sexually transmitted. Tell me what happens,” Ian demanded, a little annoyed with himself for getting sucked into this obvious scam. Mickey simply waggled his eyebrows and went back to consulting Ian’s tingling palm.

“You’ll find a guy. I don’t know if ‘the one’ shit exists, but he’ll do. You’ll do whatever it is out and proud queens do and settle down. It’ll be nice. Maybe you’ll get some dogs and put them in sweaters and shit.”

“What’s he like?” Ian asked quietly.

Mickey hesitated, not looking up to meet Ian’s eyes. His hands squeezed Ian’s slightly before he shrugged one shoulder awkwardly. “I don’t know, nice enough? He’ll be a pretty boy, decent, upstanding, a bit of a preppy douchebag. Maybe you’ll meet him on campus.”

Ian snorted softly, “preppy? I don’t really do preppy… No mechanics in there by any chance?’

“None that I can see.” Mickey shook his head before playfully slapping Ian’s hand up and away from him. “But it’s not bad, right? Sounds like a pretty good life if you can get it.”

While Ian appreciated Mickey’s vision of the ideal life for him, Ian felt it could stand for a few improvements, and when the smile Mickey gave him didn’t quite reach his eyes, Ian could only think of one way to start course correcting. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Mickey’s. One hand snaked around the back of Mickey’s neck while the other slid up his thigh, and Mickey responded immediately and ferociously.

He shoved Ian back until Ian’s head was on the armrest of the couch and Mickey was climbing over him to resume their kiss. Ian pulled him down and slid his hands under Mickey’s tank top to stroke his back before jamming them into Mickey’s pyjamas to cup his ass and press him closer. Mickey sighed against Ian’s mouth and pulled back so he could unzip Ian’s jeans and slip his hand inside. He watched as Ian arched beneath him and felt him grow hot and hard as he stroked him. Mickey’s eyes flicked towards the closed basement door and Ian panicked for a moment, thinking Mickey was about to stop. They both knew they should. Instead, Mickey looked back down on him, the blue eyes intense.

“Be quiet for me,” Mickey whispered and shuffled down to free Ian’s erection and suck him in deep.

Ian bit down so hard on his lip, he could taste the metallic tang of his blood as the warmth of Mickey’s mouth engulfed him. His hands plunged into Mickey’s hair and he too kept glancing towards the door as he fought to keep quiet. He didn’t last long, erupting into Mickey’s mouth with a strangled groan and little warning. Mickey pulled back coughing and Ian murmured apologetically.

“That had to be some kind of record,” Mickey teased and wiped his mouth while Ian buttoned his pants.

“Shut up,” Ian pouted. “Do you need me to—”

“Are you still down here?!”

The door banged open and Ian and Mickey almost had massive coronaries. Sal trudged down the stairs, still groggy from his interrupted sleep while the two young men quickly edged further apart.

“How much fucking homework can one person have?”

“I just finished,” Ian said with shocking ease.

Mickey shot him a sidelong glance before he was on his feet and getting the hell out of the basement. “I’m going to hit the hay,” he sang on the way out and skilfully sidestepping Sal.

“Um, thanks for everything,” Ian yelled after him. “I need to leave really early in the morning; are you okay to take me?”

“Yeah sure, no problem,” Mickey said before he and his still visible problem were out the door.

Sal stuck a finger in his ear as he yawned and tried to clear his sinuses. “So how was it? He any good?”

Ian bit his tongue, at least having the good sense to only nod at Sal’s question.

* * *

By the time Ian got home from school  and work, he still had energy to burn. He went for his usual run and returned to his apartment, out of breath and sweaty beneath his thermals, but still no closer to being cooled down. He knew exactly why.

“Who stops at third base?!” he yelled into his phone when Mickey answered.

“What?”

“You said you could have slid home before I even knew what hit me.  You stopped at third even though home plate is wide open.”

Mickey was quiet for a moment, “are you seriously trying to bait me with baseball analogies?”

“Just saying, to stop there when you clearly still have a job to finish is just—” Ian groped for an appropriate word, “—un-American.”

Mickey let out a short laugh. “Jesus, you’re such an idiot.” There was a moment of loaded silence between them before Mickey spoke again. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Ian blinked; he couldn’t believe that actually worked. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” Mickey said and the line went dead.

Ian bounced in place, his adrenaline building again. He looked out the window, half-hoping Mickey’s ten minutes actually meant immediately and the Escalade would have been parking. No such luck. Ian sniffed and he was sharply reminded that there was still something to take care of before Mickey showed up, because he reeked.

“Fuck!” he yelled into the quiet of his apartment and starting shedding his clothes as he made a beeline for his bathroom. Now he hoped Mickey’s ten minutes were a little more generous.

He showered as quickly as he could and towelled himself off roughly as he stepped out of the bathroom. He was halfway to his underwear drawer when there was a knock at his door. Mickey’s ten minutes, as it turned out, were literally ten minutes. Ian decided underwear was a pointless endeavour anyway, wrapped the towel around his waist and went to answer the door.

There was no question as to which version of Mickey had shown up to his apartment. All Ian wanted was to have Mickey safe and normal and as far away from this madness as possible, but that wasn’t to say he didn’t have a massive weakness for Mickey in his mobster skin. It wasn’t just the suits, there was an entire persona involved and it was always fascinating to see Mickey and his brothers slip in and out of character. He certainly wasn’t going to complain when Mickey showed up still in that mood. It put Ian in mind of the day they met.

Mickey blew out a plume of smoke and aimed a lopsided smile at Ian’s towel. “That’s how you dress for baseball?” he asked as he stepped inside. He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray on Ian’s night table and shrugged off his coat. He had left his suit jacket in the car, but the vest remained.

“You could have ditched the vest too. The only thing I really need you to keep is the tie,” Ian suggested.

“Fuck you, it’s like two degrees outside. I’m not getting ass naked in the car and freezing my nuts off just  for your lazy convenience.” He did oblige by swiftly unbuttoning and discarding the vest before he came over to Ian and divested him of his towel with a sharp yank. He stared down appreciatively at Ian’s erection. “I could make a few baseball analogies myself right now.”

“Dork,” Ian said, rolling his eyes as he fisted his hands into Mickey’s shirt and piloted the smirking man to sit on the bed. He got to his knees and settled between Mickey’s legs. “I figure I owe you one.”

“Fucking right you do,” Mickey sniffed. The blow job from the previous night might just have been the riskiest one in the world. He kept losing his mind whenever Ian was around and it was turning into a serious problem. But now Ian’s tongue was slowly trailing up the underside of his cock and he knew he wasn’t going to find a solution to that problem tonight.

Ian efficiently stripped him naked from the waist down while he sucked him off and a delicately raised eyebrow told Mickey he should be working on his shirt and tie before they got damaged. Mickey quickly complied so he could settle his hands in the red hair while Ian worked on his cock and the large, hot hands spread his thighs. Mickey fell back, propping himself up on one elbow and keeping an encouraging hand in Ian’s hair as the latter grew more aggressive in sucking Mickey off. Ian hummed contentedly, making Mickey moan as the shudder radiated from his core to his extremities.

Ian pulled off with a wet pop and moved to explore Mickey’s testicles and perineum with his tongue and lips until Mickey was writhing against his face. He pressed a wet, open mouth kiss into Mickey’s inner thigh before he pulled back. “Turn over,” he said tersely and Mickey throbbed with anticipation.

Mickey gasped as the wet heat of Ian’s tongue pressed into him and he automatically reached back to grip Ian’s hair again. The sounds choked in his throat as Ian’s tongue grew more persistent, teasing Mickey’s opening before pushing in, insisting that Mickey open up for him. Ian would stop long enough to leave soft bites and suck hot marks all over Mickey’s buttocks and thighs before coming back to probe him deeper.

“Fuck,” Mickey moaned long and low into the sheets before he panted, “fuck you, you’re going to get me turned out on this shit.”

Ian would ask what would be so wrong about that, but he had more pressing issues to attend to. He squeezed the globes of Mickey’s ass while he spread him as far as he dared and revelled in the feeling of Mickey clenching around his tongue. The hand tugging urgently in his hair told him it was time to pull back.

“Get on me now,” Mickey demanded hoarsely and Ian chuckled before dropping one more affectionate kiss on Mickey’s ass before he slapped it and stood up. Ian walked around to the other side of the bed to get the lube, while Mickey crawled into the bed and settled on his stomach, nestling his face into the pillows. He watched Ian as the man stood framed against the windows, naked, beautiful and achingly hard. “Hurry the fuck up already; no teasing.”

“Who’s teasing you?” Ian asked as he squirted a little lube into his palm and slowly stroked himself, making no moves towards the bed. If he didn’t know that Mickey would kill him, he would get himself off right there, just watching Mickey lying naked in his bed, just perfect and waiting for him.

“Ian!” Mickey demanded impatiently and actually wriggled, which was hands down the best thing Ian had seen all day.

He crawled into bed and knelt behind Mickey. He used his knee to nudge Mickey’s legs apart and was soon pressing well-lubricated fingers into his boyfriend. Mickey babbled unintelligibly into the pillows and Ian’s fingers scissored deep inside him, occasionally tapping against his prostate like he was sending Mickey a message in Morse code. By the time Ian rocked into Mickey, they were both almost gone already.

Fucking each other had to be the best kind of meditation as they lost themselves to it, nothing but the burning sensation and the sounds of the bed creaking and the headboard smacking into the wall. It took them a while to realize that there was another unfamiliar sound infiltrating—that of the pissed off neighbour.

“Fucking Christ! Knock it off assholes! People are trying to sleep over here!” came the muffled man’s voice from the other side of the wall. His neighbour, Gabriela, had never raised and issue before, but Ian guessed this was her boyfriend. More blistering invectives quickly followed.

The issue with Mickey in gangster mode was that he was always ready and spoiling for a fight; never mind the fact that his boyfriend was currently balls deep in him. Mickey’s head shot up from the pillows like an angry Rottweiler before Ian could placate him. “You got a fucking problem, Sleeping Beauty?! Come say it to my fucking f—mmph!”

Ian clapped a hand over Mickey’s mouth and quickly dragged him backwards. On the other side of the wall, Ian could just make out the muffled sounds of Gabriela telling her boyfriend to chill out. Ian and Mickey lay across the bed, but Mickey was still boring holes into the wall. Ian had to grab his face to force him to break imaginary, aggressive eye contact with his new nemesis. If Mickey thought Ian was going to let him abandon their lovemaking so he could brawl with some sleep deprived loudmouth, he was sadly mistaken.

“Let it go,” Ian told him.

“Did you hear the shit he was—mmph!” Mickey’s tirade was cut off by Ian’s lips covering his.

“Let it go,” Ian repeated and ended all discussion by pushing in Mickey until the latter’s body bowed off the bed.

Ian buried his face in Mickey’s neck and slipped his hands into Mickey’s. All thoughts of the interruption burned away as they rocked together again. The bed still creaked but the headboard was silent and there were no further complaints for the rest of the evening. Compromise had won the night.

* * *

“Don’t leave.”

Mickey paused on the edge of the bed as Ian’s sleep husked voice floated up to him. It was around three in the morning and Mickey always hesitated to stay overnight, as if it was a step too far. Ian spoke again, seemingly reading Mickey’s mind.

“This isn’t wrong, Mick—this, us, none of it is wrong. Maybe the timing is fucked up or the place, but what we have isn’t wrong,” Ian said softly, “I’ve done so much shit, you can’t imagine. I’ve been out of control and fucked up so bad and I know what every type of wrong feels like, but this is the furthest thing from any of that. Why shouldn’t we have this? We’re going to keep fucking up until we just accept it and be together, because that’s what feels right. We’ve got nothing to be ashamed of; we’ve got nothing to feel guilty about.”

Mickey reached back and stroked Ian’s face. There was still so much to consider and so much to worry about going wrong. What had been weighing the most heavily on Mickey lately was just how much Sal didn’t know Ian. Sal had never even met the person Mickey knew. Sal didn’t know about Ian’s lame jokes, he didn’t understand why Ian ran as fast and as far as he did, he barely thought of Ian as a person. Yet, it was Sal who had and abused all this access while Mickey fretted in the shadows, twisted up with guilt and uncertainty and always on the cusp of quitting everything. Sal didn’t know Ian, had no business even being near him, and he certainly didn’t love him—not in any way that was right, not the way Mickey did. So why was he the one giving up? He and Ian deserved beautiful things too.

“What do you want me to do?” Mickey asked.

“Come back to bed.”

Mickey hesitated for a moment more before he slipped beneath the sheets and let Ian climb all over him and burrow into his skin in a way the old him would have hated. Ian could do that, Ian could do anything he wanted. Ian was allowed. He stroked Ian’s back and sighed happily when Ian stroked his face and snuggled against him.

“So,” Ian said, “what are we doing for Valentine’s day?”


	19. Fool For You

Mickey awoke the next morning to the strange sensation of someone’s head resting between his shoulder blades and a large, warm hand caressing his ass. He quickly got his bearings, relaxed, and grinned into the pillow.

“What is it; what are you doing now, weirdo?” he huffed at Ian.

“I have really strong feelings about your ass, Mick,” Ian said so solemnly, Mickey almost burst out laughing. “There was a time when your ass wasn’t in my life, isn’t that crazy? I was just going about my business, not knowing your ass existed, and it was just out there in the big, wide world, on its own alone…without me.”

“You’re such an idiot, Jesus Christ.”

Ian trailed his finger over the curves of Mickey’s buttocks. “I’m just so sad about it. I mean, who was taking care of you, baby?” Ian said, addressing Mickey’s ass directly. “No one was there to worship you and treat you properly. No one to even eat you right.”

“Actually, there was this one guy in juvie who—”   

“NO ONE AT ALL,” Ian said firmly and Mickey grinned harder. “But it’s okay, because daddy’s here now.”

Mickey flipped onto his back. “Don’t you start that shit. I get enough of that daddy crap at the Rub and Tug, thanks to Trish. You know I’m starting to think you’re only into me for my ass.”

“Oh, I’m deep into your ass,” Ian confessed, grinning shamelessly as he rested a hand on Mickey’s bare hip. “But I’m really into your cock too and your mouth,” he said and nuzzled the side of Mickey’s face. “And your legs; you’ve got really nice legs, Mickey.” Ian watched delighted as Mickey unsuccessfully fought his blush. “You’re getting so red, this is amazing. Let me tell you about what other parts I’m super into.”  

Ian went for Mickey’s stomach, making Mickey laugh and eagerly retaliate until they were rolling about in bed, laughing like loons.

* * *

When Mickey left a short while later, Ian got dressed and went to knock hesitantly on his neighbour’s door. It opened and he was greeted by a shock of blue hair.

“Hey, Ian,” Gabriela greeted cheerfully and drifted back into her apartment, leaving the door open as an invitation. “What’s up?”

Ian stepped inside and marvelled, as he always did, at the way the young woman had transformed the small, crappy apartment with murals, photographs and string lights. With her elfin features, the electric blue hair and her hippie, free spirited vibe, Ian and Alex had immediately dinged her as one of Preston’s liberal arts students. So when she revealed her pre-law major, they had both been thrown.

“I just wanted to apologise for last night—”

“Oh my god, no, if anything I’m the one who’s sorry. Victor can be such a total dick sometimes, I can’t even deal. He gets so fucking cranky over nothing. I hope he didn’t break your flow or anything.”

Ian scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, “ah, no, it was—it was okay. I’ll pull the bed off the wall. I should have done that so much sooner. I don’t know why I didn’t think it would be bothering you.”

“Passion is a heavy thing, dude. Everything else can get fucked, pardon the pun,” she giggled as she grabbed her acoustic guitar and climbed onto her kitchen counter. “But fuck, don’t pull your bed away. For one, that thing has to be heavy as fuck, but more importantly, I love the way you love. You guys fuck like champions, man. It’s fucking awesome to hear it. Shit, I probably get more excited than you do when that fucking Escalade pulls up.”

Ian choked on air and sputtered, and Gabriela paused mid-strum.

“Shit, over-share? I need to really work on that. I’m a pervert with zero filter. That probably won’t come in so handy when I’m fighting the man.”

Ian coughed self-consciously. “I just don’t want to disturb you.”

“Trust me, you’re not. You guys get me where I need to go far more often than Victor does,” she smiled impishly and played a flourish on her guitar. She observed Ian’s reddening face and sang out another “sorry.”

Ian wasn’t very inclined to believe her. “Um, how much can you hear?”

“Oh, only when you guys are on the bed and pretty close to the wall. Don’t worry, the walls aren’t that thin, but you guys do get pretty loud once you get going.”

“Sorry,” Ian mumbled automatically.

“Once again, don’t apologise. You’re providing a service,” she said and raised her eyebrows suggestively. “So you guys are steady and settled now?” she asked, recalling their blow-up that had the whole floor peeking out their doors.

“Yeah,” Ian smiled softly, “I think we’re good now.”

“Awesome, because I don’t have Showtime or HBO and the last time I tried to download porn, my computer almost exploded from the viruses.”

Ian couldn’t help his scandalized giggle. “I could recommend some streaming sites for when Mickey and I aren’t around to entertain you.”

“Ooh, if you would be so kind.”

* * *

That afternoon, Mickey waited until all his brothers were present and accounted for in the basement before he did what he had planned. He rolled up his sleeves and smoothed his vest and tie, opting to stay in all but the jacket when he addressed them. For this, he needed all the visible authority he could muster and if Sal taught them anything, it was to respect the suit. He opened the basement door and headed down to where his brothers lounged about, Jaime and Tony watching TV while Iggy and Joey played pool. They all greeted him as he came down and he grunted back at them.

“Turn that shit off,” he instructed his oldest brothers, “I need to talk to you guys about something.”

Tony grunted in turn and flicked the TV off, and Iggy and Joey came over to settle on the couches as well. When all his brothers were seated and waiting, Mickey dove straight into it, not mincing his words.

“Me and Ian are back on,” he said simply.

A deathly silence fell over the basement, then three pairs of eyes slowly slid from Mickey to Jaime, who sat staring at his brother in disbelief.

“What?” Jaime asked and sat up straighter in his seat. The three pairs of eyes went back to Mickey.

“You heard what I said,” Mickey sighed, “me and Ian are doing this again, but I’m letting you guys know up front this time.”

“When are you telling Sal?” Jaime snarked.

“Don’t  be an ass; you know exactly how it is. So Ian’s off-limits—no more scares, no more lessons, no more threats. You fuck with him and I’m going to regard it as you having a problem with me.”

Jaime laughed incredulously. “So that’s how it is now? We’re your brothers; you’ve known him for a minute. You’d go to war with your own fucking family over that?!”

Mickey squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Who wants a fucking war? I’m not even trying to say that shit. Since when are you so fucking dramatic? I’m just telling you how it’s going to be, so the way I see it, you have three options here: you can back me up, you can snitch me out or you can just fuck off and mind your own business. Let us deal with our own shit. I just want to know what it’s going to be.”

Jaime chewed his lip while he regarded his youngest brother. He then turned to the other three who had been sitting silently watching the interchange. “What are you, fucking deaf-mutes now? You aren’t hearing this? You got nothing to say?”

It was Iggy who spoke first, his eyes downcast as he shuffled a deck of cards to keep his hands occupied. “I think they’re kind of cool together,” Iggy said and Jaime was gobsmacked. “Just saying…I don’t have a problem or anything.”

“Just be careful and shit?” Joey added, nodding profusely and following Iggy’s lead. “I’ve always got your back.”

Jaime looked to Tony as his last line of appeal for sense, but Tony shrugged apologetically. “He’s a grown man, Jay. He’s gonna fucking do it whether we give our blessings or not. Let’s just roll with it. They’re going to need the help; they’re fucking terrible at this.”

Mickey hid his relief well and turned to Jaime with raised, expectant eyebrows. Jaime glared back silently before he sniffed loudly.

“I ain’t no fucking snitch,” he said acidly before he finally backed down. “I’m your brother and I’ll back you up no matter what stupid shit you choose to do, but I’m still putting my objection on the record.”

“Your objection is noted,” Mickey said lightly before he released his pent up breath and grinned happily at his brothers. “So, what are we doing?”

The tension broke and the silence dissolved into conversational babble as the brothers returned to their down time.

* * *

Ian fished for his phone when it vibrated and grinned at the message. He quickly changed directions and headed for the east gate, double time. He found Mickey in his full mobster regalia, leaning easily against the Escalade as he lit up a cigarette. He cut quite the figure and Ian dinged immediately that Mickey was putting on a little show. It wasn’t hard to figure out why. Across the street from him a small gaggle of girls stood giggling in the bus shelter as they shot admiring glances at Mickey and whispered amongst themselves. Ian rolled his eyes and went to park himself directly before his boyfriend, blocking the view in both directions. He gripped Mickey’s trench coat. He didn’t go full French the way he wanted to, but the small act of possession was enough. The girls wandered off and he had Mickey’s undivided attention.

“Having fun?” Ian asked with a lift of a brow.

“Always.”

“Sal wants to see me?” Ian asked, rubbing his thumb over Mickey’s heavy, woollen trench coat.

“Nah, I do.” Mickey said and that was music to Ian’s ears. As they made their way clear of the campus and headed for Ian’s apartment, Mickey raised the one other topic that had been weighing on him all day apart from the confrontation with this brothers. “So is this Valentine’s Day thing really a big deal for you?”

“We don’t have to do anything major if you’re not comfortable with it,” Ian assured him quickly. “We can just hang out and do the same thing we did for Christmas and New Year’s if that’s what you want.”

Mickey looked over at Ian before focusing on the road again. None of that was a proper answer to his question, but that was fine. Valentine’s Day must be like the Super Bowl to romantic saps like Ian. Romance was a mystifying concept for Mickey. It was never something he had needed or even wanted before. Still, he wanted to make Ian happy, but he couldn’t imagine having a cosy little dinner anywhere. Not only was that dangerous, but Mickey was sure he would sweat through his suit due to being so uncomfortable. He would have to think of something himself.

“Want me to surprise you?” he suggested to Ian, and the green eyes went wide as dinner plates.

“Um, yeah, I mean if you want,” Ian stammered and suddenly all he could do was try to imagine what a Mickey-driven date would be like. He half expected Mickey to show up at his door with pizza and a Valentine’s Day branded six pack before calling it a day. To Ian’s surprise, the idea of that made him smile. He would honestly be fine with anything. “Surprise me.”

They pulled up to the apartment building only to hear Ian’s least favourite sound in the world—Mickey’s phone going off. “Shit, I have to go,” Mickey said after checking his phone. “I have to go,” he repeated firmly, cutting off any chance of Ian protesting or being inquisitive. Mickey softened the blow by tugging Ian to him by his jacket and kissing him softly. “I’m sorry,” he said when he pulled back. “I’ll check in with you later.”

“Come over when you’re done,” Ian ordered, “I don’t care how late.”

Night had already fallen and Mickey wasn’t sure how long his sudden assignment would take. “Are you sure? You have school in the morning and I might be really—”

“I don’t care how late.”

Mickey nodded, already drawing into himself. “Alright, I’ll see you later then. Now get out.”

Ian reluctantly climbed out of the vehicle and watched Mickey take off.

* * *

Soon, he was pushing into the darkness of his room and tossing his bag onto the floor. He was about to fall into bed for a few minutes but wound up almost jumping out of his skin instead.

“Self-preservation isn’t a real strong point for you is it?” Jaime’s voice boomed out at him from the dark of the kitchen and it was a small wonder Ian didn’t piss himself. He backed up close to his door and flicked on the light. There was Jaime leaning against the counter of his kitchen, apparently waiting for him. “Relax,” Jaime said and it was truly laughable since Ian was getting ready to run for his life, “if I was going to hurt you, I would have done it already.”

Ian didn’t move from the ready escape of the front door. He still wasn’t over the trauma of the abduction and the threats, and Jaime and Tony still frightened him no matter how much he struggled to get past it.

“I can’t believe I actually gave you more credit than you deserved,” Jaime began, “you see the way I figured it, we’d shake you up, explain how this could end up being real bad for Mick, and you’d get the hint and fuck off. I was wrong, wasn’t I? You got me good. You don’t give a shit about any of that; you just want what you want.”

“You don’t understand what we have,” Ian said as he took an impulsive step away from the wall. “I love Mick—”

“No, no,” Jaime laughed and shook his head, “don’t say that. That’s only going to piss me off and I can’t afford to make a mistake here. I love my brother, that’s why I’m trying to keep him alive and in one piece. I don’t know what the fuck you think you have going here, but it’s warped and it ain’t right, because if I tell you that fucking around with someone could get them killed, wouldn’t stepping the fuck back be the decent thing to do?” Jaime asked, “but no, that doesn’t work for you because you’re not getting what you want, so fuck everything else right? No wonder Sal’s into you.”

“It’s not like that,” Ian said softly.

Jaime said nothing and pushed away from the counter to move towards Ian. Ian shrank back against the door, watching Jaime’s movements carefully as he tried to gauge what the man was going to do. Ian was ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

Jaime smirked at Ian’s obvious discomfort and fear. “Nah, you don’t have to do that anymore. You’re bulletproof now. Mickey says we can’t touch you and what Mickey says goes. He runs shit; he controls our crew. I can’t be scrapping with him over this stupid shit or things will fall apart, so you ain’t got shit to worry about from me until Mickey wises up, or Sal gets tired of you,” Jaime sniffed. “I’m betting Sal cuts you loose first; your _je ne sais quoi_ has got to wear off sooner or later, right? Mickey doesn’t do the gaga shit often, so he’ll probably take a minute to see you for what you are. But one day one of them is gonna give the order and I’ll be the one to carry it out. Mickey will get over you; it’s inevitable. You’ll be nothing but an unpleasant memory one day.”

Ian swallowed convulsively but said nothing as he tried to focus on not shaking from the force and fatalism of Jaime’s words. His blunted fingernails scraped over his jean clad thighs and he centred his gaze on a spot just above and beyond Jaime’s head and tried to block out as much as he could. There was no ignoring Jaime’s next act, however, which was to spit at his feet.

“Enjoy this little détente while it lasts, because it’s bound to end. Don’t get it confused; you’ll never be family.”

With that, Jaime was gone and Ian released a shaky breath and slumped against the wall.

* * *

It was barely a couple hours later when Mickey showed up, clad in his jeans and heavy camo jacket. Ian almost sobbed from the joy and relief of it. He stood awkwardly in the kitchen as Mickey shrugged off some layers, still not yet at ease in his apartment after Jaime’s unexpected visit. He wasn’t even sure how to approach Mickey as the man walked over.

“I didn’t think you’d come back so fast,” Ian laughed nervously and tried to rid the tension from his shoulders by rotating them and flexing his neck.

Mickey came over to him and automatically reached up with both hands to massage the back of Ian’s neck. “It was a fucking false alarm. I don’t even know what the fuck people are playing at half the time. I just made sure everything was nailed down for the night before I showered and changed and came back here,” Mickey explained and eyed Ian carefully, “everything okay?”

Ian nodded and pulled Mickey to him, hugging him tightly and burying his nose into the crook of his neck. Mickey froze for a moment, surprised by the unanticipated action, but eventually relaxed and affectionately stroked the back of Ian’s head as the man squeezed him even more tightly.

“What’s happening?” Mickey asked.

“I’m holding you,” Ian said into Mickey’s T-shirt, his voice muffled by the soft material, “because I want to.”

“Okay,” Mickey murmured and Ian almost started laughing, endlessly amused and amazed by how Mickey just went with it, despite how clearly confused he was by whatever Ian was doing.

They stood quietly in the tiny kitchen, swaying slightly as Ian drew comfort from Mickey’s smell and warmth, and the feel of Mickey’s hand tenderly stroking his hair. Eventually, Mickey tried again.

“Ian, did something happen?” Mickey asked and the creeping menace in his voice chilled Ian and had him shaking his head firmly. “So what’s up; what’s going on, huh?”

“You’re not free,” Ian finally said and he could tell that Mickey was thrown by the odd statement. “You’re not free and everything is crazy and I don’t want to make things harder for you.”

“Oh,” Mickey whispered, slowly processing the surprise confession. He pulled back and cupped Ian’s face as he looked up into the green eyes. “You know what makes my life harder? Anti-racketeering and corruption laws—those are a bitch. Sal’s insane drug tolerance makes my life harder. Joey confusing the Semtex for the C-4 makes my life harder. You don’t make my life harder. Ian, what you and I have makes me free. So don’t worry about any of that other shit,” Mickey said and head butted Ian gently, “we’re in this; we’re fine.”

Ian rested his forehead against Mickey’s and relaxed his grip on him to settle his hands on Mickey’s hips. “It’s just been kind of a long day,” Ian said.

“Yeah? Let’s take care of that then,” Mickey said, aiming a lop-sided grin at Ian and tugging him towards the bed.

* * *

The next afternoon when Mickey picked Ian up from school, it was at Sal’s behest, much to their disappointment. They managed to make the ride to the pool house without making any unscheduled stops, any grabby hands or rumpled clothing. They would have been proud of their self-control were it not for the fact that Ian was being carted off to see Sal. The thought always tended to put a dampener on their mood. Still, Ian had a game plan when it came to dealing with Sal—no dawdling, finish him quickly and thoroughly, and put him out of his hair for the rest of the day. Ian guessed the drugs were taking a hard toll on Sal in more ways than one. Sal had never been a stallion, but his endurance had been appalling as of late. Not that Ian was complaining; not that anyone was complaining. Ian wished the man would just fall into a coma.

The gods were kind, as it would turn out. When they got to the pool house, Sal seemed to be in a tizzy. He greeted Ian with a quick peck on the cheek and shooed him off before Sal dragged Mickey into the far end of the kitchen to have a hushed conversation. Ian squinted from his seat in the living room while he unpacked his bag, trying his best to suss out whatever was going on; no luck there. When Sal and Mickey ended their conversation and headed towards him, Ian quickly looked at his textbook and pretended he had been minding his own business. Sal sat next to him and rested a hand on his knee. Mickey fidgeted with his tie and looked everywhere but at them.

“I’m sorry to always do this to you, but some unpleasant business has come up that demands my attention,” Sal said apologetically. “I’m hoping it won’t take more than a couple hours, so maybe you can wait for me here?”

Ian shrugged noncommittally and fought the urge to look to Mickey for some kind of cue.

“Hang around, do your never-ending pile of homework. If you’re seeing that it’s getting too late, get one of the other boys to take you home,” Sal suggested.

Ian couldn’t help but look at Mickey then. “You and Mickey are going out?”

“Mickey has other things to take care of, which makes me wonder why he’s still standing here,” Sal said, looking pointedly at Mickey.

“You didn’t say how you wanted me to handle it,” Mickey replied, covering the fact he had been waiting in hopes to talk to Ian himself.

“Use your discretion. Go pick up Jaime and have him help you.”

Mickey nodded and was out the door without a second look, leaving Ian crestfallen. When Sal had finally left to see to his “unpleasant business,” Ian wandered to his usual spot at the kitchen island. It hadn’t occurred to ask who else was in the pool house since he knew Jaime wasn’t there. When Tony emerged from the basement and took a seat on the stool across from his, Ian flinched and his heart sank. He really wasn’t prepared for another round of this shit.

“You’re scared of me,” Tony said and Ian wondered if he wanted an award for stating the fucking obvious. “Yeah, makes sense. I’d be scared of me too if I pulled the shit I did. I regret it a little. We kinda went overboard.”

Ian stared at him dubiously, suspicious of Tony’s motives. Tony smiled contritely and there was that little flash of Mickey that there was in all the brothers that always served to disarm him a bit.

“We were trying to make a point and shake you and Mickey up a bit,” Tony continued, “I guess we went too far, but that’s kind of our method, you know? Still, probably shouldn’t have done it. I’m gonna apologize because I realize you’ll be sticking around for a while and if you’re important to Mickey, then we gotta look out for you too and that would be kinda difficult with you being scared of me. So I’m sorry for freaking you out and I hope we can get past this,” Tony said and extended his hand to Ian.

Ian was thrown by the whole thing, especially in contrast to the tense, teeming hostility he’d encountered with Jaime. He stared at Tony’s proffered hand and took it carefully, still wary of any possible traps.

“Um, thanks,” Ian said and nervously scratched at his neck with his free hand, “this might take a minute.”

“Understandable, I did threaten to slice you to your ears.” Tony was magnanimous. Despite the olive branch offering, Ian couldn’t help a tinge of alarm; Tony’s grip was like iron and the elder Milkovich showed no signs of letting go, “all that being said,” Tony continued, “I do recommend you tread carefully. It’s amazing how fast shit can go sideways here and you want to make this work for as long as possible, I guessing.”

This really wasn’t helping Tony’s “no fear; let’s all get past this” initiative, but Ian kept his face as placid as possible while he nodded. Tony abruptly released his hand—much to Ian’s relief—and checked his watch.

“I gotta go pick up my kid,” Tony explained and slid off the stool. He clapped Ian on the back—hard, “to new beginnings, huh?” he said and left Ian to his studies.

* * *

Clearly all the brothers had something to say to him that day. While he sat unmoving an hour later, still reeling and recovering from Tony’s possibly friendly overture, Iggy emerged from the basement. He greeted Ian warmly and went to the fridge to retrieve a six-pack.

“Man, you’re always either fucking or studying; no in between?” Iggy teased as he came to peer over Ian’s shoulder at his reading assignment. “You need to take a break and get some other hobbies. Me and Joey just racked up downstairs; come be the third.”

Ian simply obeyed, not knowing if Iggy’s invitation was genuinely friendly or a means of getting to issue more threats. Either way, Ian figured he might as well get the whole thing over with, lest he went home to find Iggy, Joey or both stationed in his kitchen with baseball bats. After the two eldest Milkoviches, he hadn’t the vaguest idea which direction this would go. He simply tried to brace himself for anything.

Joey nodded at him and handed him a pool cue, and Ian found himself grateful for a potential weapon. This whole situation was beyond nerve-wracking. He figured that if Jaime or Tony hadn’t hurt him and had essentially called a ceasefire, then it was unlikely Iggy or Joey would do anything, still he readied to head for the stairs just in case.

Iggy went first and sent the billiard balls scattering about the table with a thwack of the pool cue. “Jaime and Tony work you over yet?” Iggy asked, smiling a little around his cigarette.

“Yeah,” Ian admitted carefully, “a little bit; nothing fatal.”

“Don’t even worry about it,” Iggy flexed a shoulder dismissively, “they gotta act hard all the time, but they’re not gonna do shit to you; they can’t. Mickey would have them for lunch and he’s the most vindictive motherfucker alive. Nobody fucks with Mickey, not even us,” Iggy said with a hint of pride in his voice. “You’re good, you’re golden. Don’t let them make you nervous or shit.”

“Yeah,” Joey said simply as he took his turn.

Ian looked from one to another, trying to gauge where this was going. “So you guys aren’t going to try and intimidate me or anything?”

“Are you kidding?” Iggy snorted and Joey laughed with him, “after Jaime and Tony went at you, what the fuck kind of effect could we have?”

“Besides, we’ve always been cool with you and Mick,” Joey chimed in, “we think you’re pretty good for him. It sucks you gotta fuck around with Sal and shit, and I know Mickey doesn’t take it so good, but the benefits outweigh the risks, right, Ig?”

“Fuck yeah,” Iggy said and nodded at Ian to take his shot.

“You don’t think I’m sending Mick on a fast track to an early grave?” Ian asked quietly and to his surprise, the brothers snorted in amusement again.

“Mick? Nah, nothing gets over on a Milkovich. Sal wishes he was good enough to take one of us out. Nuclear holocaust goes down, it’ll be just a bunch of Milkoviches and the roaches.”

“Fuck yeah,” Joey chortled and the brothers grinned at each other.

“As long as you’re careful and don’t do anything too dumb, you’ll be alright,” Iggy reassured him. “We aren’t worried about you guys like that. We’re survivors and Mickey’s been surviving his whole life until now, but he knows fuck all about living,” Iggy shrugged, “So I think it’s cool you’re here. He needs all this mess you’re bringing in.”

“Jaime and Tony might give you a hard time, but you don’t have to worry about them. If Mickey says you’re family, you’re family, and Milkoviches look out for our own.”

“To family, huh?” Iggy grunted before raising his can and taking a deep swig of his beer. Joey grunted in response.

It was a little crazy how much the easy reassurance and affability moved and reassured Ian. He relaxed in swift increments until he was talking, laughing and moving easily amongst the two brothers.

“Oh,” Iggy exclaimed, apparently suddenly remembering he still had one more thing to add, “just take care of him, okay? Don’t fuck around on him or fuck him up more than he already is,” Iggy said.

“Yeah,” Joey nodded, “because it would be a real shame if we ended up having to mess you up after everything,” he said with a surprising and impressive amount of menace.

Ian sighed and nodded; Milkoviches just couldn’t help themselves.

* * *

Agent Hernandez knocked on Fowler’s door and burst in before he could even finish granting her permission. He was reclining in his chair, his legs propped up on the table as he read his paper, existing in stark contrast to the flushed, young agent barging into his office.

“Carlisi’s dead,” she declared, sounding almost excited by the prospect.

“Finally?” Fowler was genuinely surprised. Carlisi had been on his deathbed for what felt like years. The Outfit had had so many gatherings at his house, thinking the man was about to pass in a minute, and he’d always managed to persist. “I thought I was going to die before him at this rate,” the agent mused. “And so it begins.”

“What happens now?” Hernandez asked eagerly. Between the continued raids on the mansions and business, and scooping up and shaking down the ne’er-do-wells, she was starting to feel like one of the Untouchables. She was raring for the next major development.

“What happens now? Silly season,” Fowler sighed, “the underboss chair is now open and the ambitious are going to make their play for it. Hopefully it won’t get too messy.”

She was practically vibrating at the thought. She centred herself and tried to play out the scenarios. “I thought Big Tony Salerno was the only real candidate,” she said to her boss.

“He is from what our intel says, and this transition should be an uneventful and peaceful one, but still, we have to be prepared for any contingencies.”

* * *

“Carlisi’s dead,” Sal said quietly as he stood framed in the doorway of the master bedroom. His wife looked at his reflection in the mirror, not deigning to turn and face him. She continued applying lotion to her hands and fixing her makeup as she regarded her awkward husband.

“You came all the way here to tell me something I already know?” she asked, “surely even you can find something better to do with your time. I’m getting ready to visit with the Widow Carlisi now. Why do you think I’m in here putting on my face?”

Sal shuffled into the room and gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, close to where Linda sat at her vanity table. “I never know why anyone would gild the lily.”

Linda snorted rudely at the sugary sentiment, but Sal wasn’t being disingenuous even though he wasn’t without guile. Linda had always been a beautiful woman; would be until the day she died. She kept her long, black hair devoid of any grey, and her features were pale and delicate even while the grey eyes were hard—at least to him. She looked like a woman in her thirties as opposed to her fifties. She kept herself impeccably and everything seemed to fall into place with easy grace in a way Sal envied terribly. No matter how hard he tried and how expensive and lavish his suits and tastes, he simply could not pull it off. He always seemed unkempt, laboured and off-kilter despite his best efforts, and walking in with someone as exquisite and flawless as Linda—or even Ian—on his arm was both a source of immense pride and intense humiliation.

“What do you want, Salvatore?” Linda sighed, the impatience and irritation in her voice plain in her voice. “You should be getting ready to go over and pay your respects instead of annoying me.”

“Carlisi’s gone and there’s a need for a new underboss,” Sal began slowly.

Linda rolled her eyes, “you came to that conclusion all on your own, did you?” she said acidly, “there will be a new underboss. Tony will take over soon enough, just let Carlisi’s body get cold in the ground before we drink to the ascension.”

“Why does it have to be Tony?”

Linda frowned with exasperated incredulity into her mirror. “Who else would it be? There’s no one else even remotely half as qualified. He’s the biggest earner out of all the Capos, he’s the most respected out of you bunch of yahoos and he has the firm hand it’s going to take to keep the rest of you in check.”

Sal shook his head, blocking out Linda’s ringing endorsement, and finally said what he had come to say, “why not me? I can run the Outfit as well as anybody. I could be the underboss.”

There was a moment of stunned silence and Linda actually twisted on her stool to stare at her husband. Her mouth worked wordlessly for a moment before she broke down into peals of laughter. Her voice was high, ringing and musical, and it grated so much against Sal’s nerves he thought his ears would bleed.

“You?!” Linda spat, “you, the walking embodiment of a punch line, you want to become the underboss of one of the biggest crime syndicates in America? You couldn’t lead your way out of a wet paper bag if the exit was glowing. I’m surprised you can find your ass with both hands, but you want to be the underboss. Smell you!”

Sal glowered at her, each barb landing with stinging accuracy. “Tony isn’t better than me! None of them is better than me! I could do as good a job if not better than any of those condescending, limp dick fuckers! I’m a man, ain’t I?!”

“You’re a vague approximation of a man,” Linda sneered, “like whoever assembled you had the general concept but somehow entirely missed the point. You’re a disgrace as a Capo as it is, but you want to be underboss. You want to challenge Big Tony?! Tony’s a real man! Even you should be able to recognize one, given your interests and proclivities,” Linda sniffed and picked up a brush to smooth out her hair. “What could possess you to think you even had a chance?”

Sal’s hands were fisted so tightly, his nails were cutting into his palms. Linda’s last question reminded him of why he has talking to her in the first place and he tamped his burgeoning rage to try cajoling her. “You have Fischetti’s ear,” he said, “he listens to you; you’re still his favourite niece; maybe even his favourite person outside his wife and kids.”

“So?”

“You can tell him” Sal urged her, “tell him there’s a choice; that I could be a good pick; maybe a great one.”

“Is it your age or the drugs that’s making you this slow on the uptake?” Linda sighed, “my uncle listens to me because I don’t tell him nonsense. You think he doesn’t know what you are? I ask him to give you Carlisi’s seat and he’d have me committed,” Linda shook her head wryly, “eleven years of medical school, trying everything and anything to escape this shit and here I am, little more than a glorified mob doctor and wife. The looks I get,” she hissed into the mirror, her bitterness evident. “Even if you weren’t a completely incompetent buffoon, I’d never recommend you just so you can drag me deeper into this muck. You want to be underboss so badly, sack up and go challenge Tony. Who knows, maybe he’ll die pissing from the laughter.”

“I’m your husband, you’re my wife,” Sal seethed, “you’re supposed to support me!”

Linda wasn’t the least bit cowed. Instead she idly walked her fingers about her jewellery box and selected a bauble. “oh, Salvatore,” she said almost pityingly, “go fuck yourself.”

* * *

It was after ten in the evening on Valentine’s day and Ian was already standing outside at the curb when the Mustang growled to a stop at his feet. Mickey grinned at Ian’s excitement and eagerness, and tried to contain his own exhilaration.

“I was gonna come upstairs and get you, you know?” Mickey said teasingly.

“You think I was waiting for you? Get over yourself,” Ian grinned through his blatant lie, “I was just getting some fresh air.”

“Sure, you ready then?” Mickey’s grin widened as Ian nodded, “you need me to open the door for you, princess?”

“Fuck off,” Ian growled, and he was seated and buckled up in the next instant. “so where are we going?”

Mickey glanced over at him and shook his head, “how is it a surprise if I tell you upfront?”

Ian gave Mickey the once over and got a little nervous at the sight of the black dress shirt tucked neatly into the dark jeans and the scent of that special cologne.

“Was I supposed to dress up?”

“No, what the fuck for?” Mickey frowned at him briefly, “you look fine; you look good.”

Ian beamed and tugged at the side of Mickey’s shirt, “You dressed up just for me then?”

Mickey scoffed but his fluster was evident, “fuck off, I dress how I want.”

Ian didn’t respond at all. He simply trailed his hand down to Mickey’s thigh and left it there for the remainder of the journey.

The ride didn’t take all that long, though it felt like an eternity to the person in the dark. They turned off the Campus Drive onto the narrow isthmus connecting to Northerly Island and Ian was doubly confused about what could be out there of all places. He raised a brow when Mickey pulled into the empty parking lot of the planetarium and reached behind the seat for his coat.

“Let’s go!” Mickey ordered and got out of the car. Ian obediently got out with him and looked on in mild consternation as Mickey retrieved a large duffel bag from the trunk and then whipped out his cell phone to send off a text. A second later, Mickey’s phone buzzed. “Okay, south entrance,” he said simply and took off. Ian trotted after him.

Ian was surprised to see a face peeking out of one of the side entrances as they approached the door and the man greeted Mickey. The stranger held the door open and Mickey and Ian hustled inside. Mickey made swift introductions.

“Jimmy, Ian; Ian, Jimmy.”

Ian and Jimmy nodded to each other and Ian trailed after the two men as they headed at a brisk pace deeper into the planetarium. Ian lagged behind a little as he gawked at the elaborate set-ups and displays, and longed to see what the various sections had to offer, totally sucked in by the exciting promises of the banners and the direction arrows. He almost lost sight of Mickey and Jimmy entirely, until Mickey yelled back to him, his voice bouncing threateningly about the huge space.

“Gallagher, come on!”

Ian quickly took off after them and caught up.

“So it’s good?” Mickey asked Jimmy as the young man led them into a massive, domed theatre.

“Yeah, I got the shows lined up for you. I’ll go start them and take off,” Jimmy nodded, “you got until four then you have to clear out before maintenance shows up. Try to clean after yourselves as best as you can so no one—meaning me—catches hell for letting people in.

“No problem, Ian’s a boy scout,” Mickey said, waggling his eyebrows at Ian, “you’ll never know we were here.” Mickey stooped down and retrieved a paper bag out of the duffel bag and tossed it to Jimmy, “with thanks.”

Jimmy looked into the bag and beamed, “nice doing business with you. I’ll go start it up. Remember, four o’clock!”

The planetarium worker disappeared for a moment into the control booth before reemerging with a thumbs-up to Mickey. Ian watched him head out, clutching his precious paper bag tightly, until he disappeared out the door.

“How do you know him?” Ian asked Mickey, who was focused on unzipping and unpacking the duffel bag.

“Jail,” came the succinct answer, “society knocks it, but you really meet the most interesting and useful cross-section of people.”

“You guys never—” Ian stopped abruptly as a massive planet came into unbelievable focus overhead. Ian gasped audibly at the vividness and detail of the image and how amazingly real and close it seemed. “Holy shit!”

Mickey was not admiring the beginning of the show, but was instead struggling to free the blanket he had stuffed into the bag amongst the other things. He yanked it out with a grunt and spread it in the passageway. He grinned at Ian’s gobsmacked expression with pride.

“You said you wanted to look for shooting stars, right?” Mickey said, “I was going to take you outside the city, but it’s fucking two degrees out so—” he shrugged sheepishly and flopped down onto the blanket, “—next best thing.”

Ian sank to the floor and stretched out next to his boyfriend, and tugged Mickey closer until the man was resting his head on Ian’s shoulder and draping a booted foot casually over his. They watched enraptured as the voiceover began, introducing them to the wonders and mysteries of the universe. The dome around them came alive and transported them into the depths of space. They were left oohing, aahing and giggling at the wonder of it all. Mickey occasionally reached back to fish out food and beer from his bag, and Ian was left wondering just how much stuff Mickey had packed in there.

One show bled into another and the voice of the universe explained things like the birth and death of stars and the perpetual expansion of the universe. Ian was completely caught up in it all and barely blinked as he idly stroked Mickey’s hair and sipped the beer Mickey had brought, always aware of the heat and presence of the man snuggled against him. The time bled away quickly and soon the shows began looping to the beginning. Ian didn’t mind, especially when Mickey flipped onto his side towards him and nuzzled his cheek.

Mickey, as a rule, was not a slow or gentle initiator. That kind of stuff he usually left to Ian and his moods. When Mickey wanted it, he would shake Ian awake or grab his dick; whatever it took to get his point across quickly. But it was Valentine’s Day and he figured he’d give soft and slow a try for a change, even though he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it.

Ian let him fumble around for a while, charmed by the effort. Mickey tried his best to mimic the things Ian usually did—slipping a hand beneath Ian’s shirt and nibbling on his earlobe—and hoped for good results. Ian turned towards Mickey and trailed his thumb over Mickey’s lower lip.

“We’re really alone?” Ian asked.

“Yeah,” Mickey murmured and pushed Ian so he was flat on his back again. “Hang on a bit,” Mickey said and reached into the magical duffel bag for the lube and rested it next to Ian’s head. Mickey then went about kicking off his shoes and working off his pants and underwear while Ian watched with great interest. “The one drawback with liking to take it all the time is that you’re the one that always has to ditch your shit.”

“Don’t have to,” Ian pointed out, “we could do it sideways, for example. You don’t have to take your pants off all the way then if you don’t want to.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Mickey stuck his tongue out gleefully and tossed his pants and boxer-briefs aside. “I want you on your back for this.” Mickey grabbed the lube and shuffled down to settle between Ian’s legs. “Keep watching your show.”

It was a little hard to focus on the vagaries of the cosmos when Mickey’s tongue was slowly trailing its way up the underside of his cock. Ian glimpsed down to see that Mickey had paused briefly to lubricate his fingers and had reached back to prepare himself.

“You don’t want me to do that for you?” Ian asked hoarsely.

“It’s all good; I’m a professional,” Mickey said as he sank his fingers in a little deeper and sucked lightly on the head of Ian’s cock. He looked up at Ian cheekily, “mind your business.”

Ian lay back and groaned as Mickey lapped at his cock and sucked him down with a moan. Ian opened his eyes and watched as stars and their solar systems sailed by at dizzying speeds while his heart pounded and Mickey licked at him as if he was a melting Popsicle. The whole thing was surreal and bordering on overwhelming, and the massive dome—so built to immerse him and encapsulate the feeling of floating through space—was threatening to swallow him.

Things like this didn’t happen to him, at least not all at once. He was so used to either/or situations. He could have the romantic date, but with someone he didn’t really care for romantically, like Sal. He could have a crush on someone, but deep down know there was something not quite right about it, like it had been with Kash. He was a poor, crazy, fuck up of a kid from the crap side of Chicago, and perfect dates with the boy he loved, while the universe bloomed above him, just didn’t happen. He covered his face with his hands and tried to keep himself from spiralling, but he was overcome and he could feel that tinge of mania in his chest, threatening to bubble over into hysterical laughter.

He needed to keep it together, because there could not have been a worse time to freak out. Before the feeling could take hold and drag him down, he felt Mickey crawling over him to sit just above his hips and pull Ian’s hands away from his face. Mickey grinned down at him and Ian’s erratic heartbeat and breathing began to even out a little.

“All warmed up for you,” Mickey murmured and rocked forward so he could grip Ian’s cock and slowly ease onto it.

Ian exhaled slowly and gripped Mickey’s hips to steady them both. The fraught, uncertain moment dissipated and everything was immediately infinitely better. Ian’s universe wasn’t too big, surreal, or terrifying anymore, not as long as Mickey was at the center of it. His heart still pounding and his breathing was still laboured, but it was  good; it was all good. He focused on Mickey’s face as his boyfriend rode him, mildly cognizant of the series of stars going supernova behind Mickey’s head. It was too perfect, but at least now it wasn’t threatening to engulf him whole. He cupped Mickey’s ass and thrust upwards as Mickey’s speed built.

Mickey’s hands fisted in Ian’s T-shirt as he braced against Ian’s chest and rocked hard on top of him. The voiceover was soon drowned out as their voices filled the room while they built towards their crescendo. Ian pumped Mickey’s cock, trying his best to keep time with the pace of their hips, and revelled in every expression on Mickey’s face.

“Please,” Mickey begged him, “please, Ian.”

It took only a moment for Ian to figure out what Mickey needed. He kept stroking Mickey’s cock, but let go of his ass in order to reach up and wrap his hand around Mickey’s neck, and almost climaxed at the satisfying gasp Mickey made and the way the blue eyes rolled back as the pleasure overtook him.

“I love you,” Ian gasped brokenly as Mickey erupted into his hand and gripped Ian’s wrist tightly through his orgasm, “I love you,” he repeated as he released Mickey’s throat when he too went over the edge. Mickey fell off him gracelessly and lay next to him coughing and sputtering to catch his breath. Ian wasn’t much better.

“Holy shit,” Mickey croaked and eventually burst out laughing. “I think I might be into Valentine’s Day!”

They didn’t speak for a while, still trying to recover, and Mickey lazily groped around for his pants and underwear and tugged them on. He eventually turned to Ian. “This was good, right?”

Ian knew what he was after. Mickey wanted some reassurance that he had done well with the date and was blatantly fishing for compliments. Ian was more than willing to give them to him, but he still needed another minute, so he simply nodded. They both jumped a little when a familiar alarm went off.

“Sex alarm?” Ian asked.

“Stop calling it that, asshole,” Mickey laughed, “that’s the sign that we need to clean up and get the fuck out of Dodge.”

“In a minute,” Ian said and rolled over to trap Mickey beneath him. “This was fucking amazing; you’re fucking amazing,” he said as he peppered kisses all over Mickey’s face.

Mickey laughed and squirmed beneath him, obviously delighted that he had pulled it off and Ian was happy. “Well, whatever,” Mickey said, his eyes bright and his face reddening, “don’t be expecting this sappy shit every day.”

“No, not every day,” Ian said reasonably before managing to fill at least one Milkovich with a little bit of dread for a change, “but man, I can’t wait to see what you do for my birthday.”


	20. But At Last Came A Knock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Due to a lot of personal and health stuff, I will be slackening the update schedule to biweekly posts as opposed to weekly. I will try to do weekly posts when possible, but please consider TIPDIG biweekly from now on. I'm bummed that I couldn't keep the weekly pace going all the way through, but I realize that I need to cut back a little bit. I'm sorry for any inconvenience and I hope you guys understand. ♥

It was Monday morning, two days after the Valentine’s date and yet Ian still felt so high, he could barely keep himself on the ground. It took a concerted effort not to walk around grinning like an idiot as he headed onto the campus grounds. He floated about until he eventually found Alex, who was seated in the cafeteria, chatting to Martin and DeeDee, two other members of the Trans community on Preston.

“Hey guys,” Ian greeted them and slid into the seat when Martin shuffled over. “What’s good?”

They all greeted him warmly and Alex rested her feet on his lap. “DeeDee’s contemplating taking the plunge and changing her name legally.”

“Yep,” DeeDee sang out, “goodbye, Dexter Kahananui; hello, DeeDee Kahananui.” She bounced slightly and swept her long brown hair into a ponytail before compulsively letting it back down again. “I’ve finally been living long enough in Illinois to do it here. The process is a total hassle, but imagine getting junk mail in my real name!”

Ian couldn’t help but grin. “Your name was Dexter and you’re changing it to DeeDee?”

Martin snorted, “I know right? She got her name from a freaking cartoon.”

“Rude,” DeeDee frowned at her friend, “just because it was a cartoon doesn’t mean it wasn’t a huge deal for me,” she said before turning and nodding to Ian, “I was so psyched about a cartoon where the star had the same name as me, you can’t even imagine. But even back then, there was just nothing about Dexter I could identify with at all. DeeDee, on the other hand, was my jam. She was vivacious and silly, just a total train wreck—isn’t that me in a nutshell?” she asked the table. They all murmured in agreement. The train wreck part at least was spot on.

“Were you trying to call me yesterday?” Alex asked Ian, “I got so fucking wasted, I was hung over all day. I couldn’t even find my phone until my alarm went off this morning. It was in the laundry basket, in case you were wondering.”

“Good girls’ night out?” Ian said.

“God, I think so. The last thing I remember is me and Rosa on her dining room table scream-singing ‘Chandelier.’ It’s all a blur after that.” She focused more closely on Ian’s grinning face and soon the other two were staring at him as well.

“What?” Ian asked, looking from one to the other.

“What’s your deal?” Martin asked on behalf of the group, “the last time I saw someone glowing like that, she was three months pregnant and my dad was looking for a shotgun.”

“Yeah, how was your Valentine’s Day,” Alex chimed in, raising a delicate eyebrow as she watched Ian’s grin almost explode from his face.

“It was epic,” Ian sighed and everyone immediately did away with the pretence of studying or anything productive and leaned towards Ian, eager for the juicy details. He did not disappoint. He spent the few minutes regaling them with the story of Mickey’s secretly planned Valentine perfection. The group listened, mouths agape, as Ian waxed rhapsodic with hearts in his eyes.

“Motherfucker!” Alex exclaimed when a moony Ian sighed to a close, “a planetarium; are you fucking kidding me?! I think Rosa might have grabbed my tit by accident to steady herself at one point. _THAT’S_ the most action I think I’ve gotten for months and you get a goddamned planetarium?!”

“Josh gave me wild flowers and one of those cards made from one hundred percent recycled paper,” DeeDee shook her head in bewilderment, “I thought it was so sweet and environmentally conscious of him. Now, obviously, I’m going to have to go home and dropkick him in the face!”

“I bought my girl a couple deep dish pizzas and a six pack,” Martin said nervously and the table looked at him askance, “she said anything was fine! She just wanted to chill and hang out.”

“That was a lie,” DeeDee said with a roll of her eyes, “and when I tell her about star-fucker over there, you’re going to get dropkicked in the face too.”

“Did I mention what an amazing backdrop a supernova makes?” Ian chirped and wasn’t the least bit bothered by all the death glares sent his way.

* * *

His mood wasn’t even dampened when Iggy texted him to meet him at the main gate. Mickey was handling business at the Rub and Tug, he was told, and Sal was feeling down and wanted his company. Ian took it all in stride; the residual euphoria blanketing everything in a soft glow of positivity and acceptance. Even Iggy was looking at him sideways. He wondered if seeing Sal would be enough to bring down his mood.

To his surprise, he wasn’t even annoyed at Sal when he finally saw him. Being high on love was the most ridiculous thing. Besides, Sal seemed stressed out and downbeat, which perversely only helped to improve Ian’s own mood. He grinned sunnily at Sal as he tossed his bag on the floor and the old man looked at him askance.

“You’re in a good mood,” Sal murmured, watching with interest as Ian slipped off his jacket before the warm light of the window. The boy really was art in motion and Sal was ever in awe of him.

“When am I not in a good mood?” Ian replied. “It’s a beautiful day and I got an A on one of my tests,” Ian beamed, “what’s to be mad about?”

Encouraged by Ian’s good mood, Sal came over to him and rubbed his hands up the young man’s arms. “I’m glad you’re having a good run,” he told Ian, “here’s hoping it rubs off on me because I feel like my luck has turned to shit lately. Everything’s stressing me out and I’m fucking sore…”

Ian had carefully honed his pseudo listening skills since meeting Sal. The mobster had a tendency to go off on rants and long complaining jags and Ian simply could not bring himself to care, from even before the downturn of his feelings for Sal. Instead, he simply listened for key words and phrases and “sore” was one of them.

“Want me to take care of you?” Ian suggested, offering what he knew Sal was asking for from his babble. Sal nodded eagerly and Ian indicated to him to go lie down so they could begin their typical routine.

Ian planned to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. He shed his clothes in a rush—a move Sal usually mistook for eagerness—and grabbed the massage oil from the table and a condom from his backpack. He tossed both on the bed next to Sal’s nude, prone body and knelt beside him. Ian didn’t mind giving the massages. Sometimes if he was particularly adept at it, Sal would fall asleep just from that. He grabbed the oil and got to work.

It wasn’t until Sal started squirming impatiently beneath his touch that Ian realized that this was not a typical meeting. He had been toiling for what felt like ages now and still he wasn’t hard. He frowned a little and tugged a few times at his dick. It usually didn’t take him even half this long to get going; Sal should be snoring by now. His body usually understood how to respond once he was in a sexual situation, and this lack of cooperation was jarring to say the least. He tried again to stir some kind of response and still nothing happened. When Sal began to flip over, Ian panicked.

“I need to use the bathroom,” he said quickly and scuttled off the bed to flee. He closed the bathroom door, leaned against it and stared down at his penis, obviously feeling betrayed. “What the fuck?!” he growled at the stubbornly flaccid organ and tried to get his bearings.

He figured he just needed to calm down and think of some genuinely arousing thoughts. His mind automatically reached for Mickey and Ian balked at it. He could never bring Mickey into this, not with Sal. It just made him feel dirty, guilty, and distracted, not exactly the best emotions to get his dick hard. He tried to think of another erotic image only for his mind to blank completely and his panic grew in earnest.

“Ian?”

“Give me a minute,” he yelled, “I, uh, I think I ate something weird.”

He shoved away from the door to frantically rifle through the medicine cabinet, not even sure what he was looking for, but searching anyway. He squatted down to open the cabinet beneath the sink and poked through the towels. To his amazement he found something. Tucked out of sight beneath the towels was a magazine. Ian could already guess the nature of it before he even pulled it out.

“ _Mandate_ , what the fuck?” Ian couldn’t help a twinge of amusement. He strongly doubted it was Mandy’s, not that he couldn’t imagine her being into that kind of thing, but the magazine dated back to the eighties and almost all the men in it were unrepentantly hairy. Who even still used magazines in this day and age? It was one thing when you were a poor gay kid with little privacy and no ready internet access, Ian had needed his magazines, but Sal had zero excuse to still have these relics hanging about. Still, right now he was desperate and in no position to judge. Besides, page nineteen looked a little like early Van Damme and was one of the few not completely covered in a downy pelt. Beggars could not be choosers.

* * *

Sal was waiting patiently for Ian to re-emerge only to get startled by frantic pounding on his door. Before he could even gather his wits to answer, Mickey was bursting in, making Sal scramble to cover himself.

“What the fuck do you think you’re—” he began before Mickey cut him off with bone chilling news.

“We’re getting raided. The Feds are on their way right now,” Mickey said as his eyes swept the room.

“What?” Sal croaked weakly.

“Now, Sal; put some fucking clothes on and get your shit together! Where’s Gallagher?!” Mickey demanded and Sal automatically looked at the bathroom door. Just as he had done before, Mickey pounded frantically on the door before simply barging inside where Ian sat naked on the toilet, desperately trying to get something going with Van Damme-lite. Ian cringed and reflexively tried to cover himself while Mickey’s eyebrows snapped together. “Ian, what the fuck?” Mickey whispered.

“No, it’s not what it—I was just trying to—” Ian stammered.

Mickey waved his arms to stop the flustered chatter. “Doesn’t matter, I don’t care. Get your clothes on, we’re leaving now.” Mickey stomped back out of the bathroom and Ian stumbled out after him. Sal still sat on the bed, seemingly in a daze and Mickey almost took his head off. “Didn’t you hear a word I just said?!” Mickey snapped and tossed Sal’s clothes at him, “Jesus fucking Christ, this isn’t your first time at the rodeo. Get your fucking face on and make sure your house is clean. Flush whatever shit you got. I need to get Gallagher out of here.”

“You’re leaving?!” Sal’s voice climbed while he and Ian yanked on their clothes as Mickey cracked the whip. “Why the fuck are you leaving?!”

“I need to get him out of here,” Mickey said in exasperation as if Sal was the slowest creature on the planet. He was still working with the hopes that the Feds hadn’t sniffed out Ian yet, and Mickey would be fucked if he was going to let Ian become another Polaroid on Fowler’s wall. “You really want Fowler meeting the gay go-go you’ve been banging on the side? Is that really a card you want to hand him?”

Sal nodded as he buttoned his shirt. Of course Mickey was right; Mickey was always right, always thinking ahead—his own chess master. “Yeah, okay…what about the pool house?”

“It’s clean; I always keep my shit clean. Just call me if anything goes down,” Mickey said before snapping at Ian again, “Gallagher!”

“Jesus fuck, alright!” Ian tugged on his boots and hurriedly grabbed his coat and bag. He was about to give Sal his usual goodbye kiss only for Mickey to drag him bodily away before he could.

“Nobody has time for that shit; let’s go,” Mickey grumbled and hauled Ian by the sleeve like a wayward child until they were outside. Ian headed towards the Escalade, but Mickey shook his head and went to the unassuming grey Camry that was also parked in the massive garage. When they got into the car, Ian automatically put his hood up, but Mickey yanked it back down. “If you look like you’re hiding, you’re only going to draw suspicion. You’re fine, they don’t know you; just play it cool.”

Ian had to stop himself from asking a very embarrassing follow up question to that bit of instruction. He buckled up and settled in his seat as Mickey pulled away from the grounds. They hadn’t been driving for five minutes when they saw an uncomfortably familiar flash of lights coming towards them.

“Holy shit,” Ian breathed out at the cavalcade of law enforcement bearing down on them. Ian had seen a few raids in his neighbourhood and had even seen cop cars swarming his own family, but never anything of this magnitude. Cruisers, black vans, unmarked cars all whizzed by in a seemingly never-ending line, all flashing and wailing away. Ian knew it wasn’t simply a case of him being uninitiated because Mickey was next to him quietly losing his shit.

“What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?!” Mickey whispered as the vehicles went by. “They know something. They gotta know something. No fucking way they’re coming this hard without knowing something. What the fuck?!”

The last of the raid disappeared behind them and Mickey still fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat and his nervous energy was seeping into Ian’s bones. A moment later, Mickey’s phone rang and it was Jaime with more ill tidings.

“They’re hitting Lombardo, they’re hitting Spano and Cerone, they’re hitting fucking everybody,” Jaime’s voice boomed across the line, “what is this shit? It’s a literal Bay of fucking Pigs!”

“At the same time?! Are there really this many pigs in Chicago?” Mickey mused out loud, “are they outsourcing this shit? Are they using fucking day labourers from Home Depot? How are they doing this?!”

Mickey hung up on his brother and his fingers tightened around the wheel as his mind spun. Ian could see that familiar tightening around Mickey’s eyes and mouth. It was the same look he got every time he ventured too far outside his comfort zone when they took their rides. The same look Mickey got when he was feeling that near irresistible pull to fall back and return to Sal and the insane quagmire. Ian knew he was right when Mickey finally spoke.

“Maybe I should drop you off at the next bus stop,” Mickey said. “You can get home from—”

“No!” Ian said sharply, surprising Mickey, “take me home,” he demanded. He’d be fucked if he was letting Mickey head back into that shit. Sal would just have to manage on his own. Mickey glanced at the rear-view mirror uncertainly, as if expecting to still see the cruisers behind him. He finally nodded and kept on the path to Ian’s apartment.

When they got there, it was another task and a half for Ian just to get Mickey out of the car and up to his apartment. Once inside, Mickey was clearly agitated and antsy, hovering near the door as Ian tossed down his bag and shrugged off his coat. Mickey eyed his phone and glanced up helplessly at Ian.

“I should get out of here,” Mickey said, but of course Ian was having none of that.

“Why? Why would you go back there right now?” Ian asked, “this has nothing to do with you!”

Mickey looked at him as if he were crazy. “You got amnesia? This has everything to do with me. Somebody has to wrangle Sal. Sometimes his mouth gets away with him.”

“Sometimes your mouth gets away with you too!” Ian said in exasperation. “You told me the last time you went to juvie it was for punching a cop, for fuck sake! Mickey, you’re still on probation. Do you really think it’s the smartest thing to be hanging around a fuck-ton of police and Feds when you don’t even know what kind of shit Sal has lying about in the main house?” Ian pointed out before pressing home as Mickey looked at him uncertainly, “it’s Sal’s property; they’re raiding Sal. He’s the Capo and this is his shit. It’s his responsibility to deal with it, so let him.”

Mickey glanced at his phone again while the dizzying and upsetting possibilities played in his mind. He shook his head and moved for the door. “You don’t understand,” he murmured, “I have to at least see what’s going on—keep a handle on things.”

“Mick, if you leave now…” Ian said, the desperation clear in his voice before he trailed off significantly. It certainly worked to freeze Mickey in his tracks.

“What?” Mickey asked quietly, “if I leave now what, Ian?”

Ian hesitated and decided to back down from the unspoken threat. Instead he tried another tack and went to cup Mickey’s face. “Mick, this is crazy; I am freaking out right now,” Ian said, deciding to be honest about the panic burgeoning inside him. All he could see was Mickey getting tossed back into the jail the moment the Feds set eyes on him. “You can’t leave me here to freak out like this.” He rested his head against Mickey’s and gripped the man’s jacket tightly. “Just stay, please. You told Sal to call if he needed you and he hasn’t. You don’t need to be there right now, but I need you here. Please…”

Mickey’s head still buzzed, but he reached up and stroked Ian’s face and Ian didn’t miss the opportunity to move in for the kiss. He relaxed when Mickey eagerly kissed back and he hugged Mickey close as the kiss deepened. When they broke apart, they were out of breath and their eyes were glazed, and when Ian pulled Mickey towards the bed, the latter did not resist.

* * *

Sal was watching his stash of coke and pills swirl down the toilet when the knock came. He panicked briefly about whether or not he had dumped everything, but there simply was no more time. He stumbled down the spiral staircase, wiping his damp palms on his shirt, and opened the door to find Agent Fowler and what appeared to be every federal agent in Chicago at his back.

“Top of the evening to you, Salvatore,” Fowler beamed at him and held the search warrant aloft, “have a warrant here to search your premises on the suspicion of racketeering and a veritable host of other naughty things. Do us a solid and let us in.”

Sal grabbed the warrant to scan it even as Fowler stepped past him, leading the four hundred horsemen of the apocalypse inside with him. Hernandez was right behind her boss, trying not to grin too gleefully while feeling like a kid in a candy store. She pulled her gloves a little more tightly and made a beeline for the stairs and the master bedroom. They were soon swarming his home like cockroaches, touching everything and getting everywhere and Sal’s hand crushed the warrant as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

“This is fucking harassment,” Sal growled, “what the fuck am I supposed to be under investigation about this time?”

Fowler clicked his tongue, “come on, Salvatore, are you really going to make me do the whole song-and-dance? You should have memorized the routine by now,” he said with irritating airiness. “Besides, it’s all there in the warrant. You know who I’ve been missing lately? Jimmy Accardo—how’s he been? Seems to have fallen off the face of the earth. He’s one of your drivers right?”

Sal was stone faced, “I don’t know nothing ‘bout Jimmy. He took off weeks ago; figured you fuckers had him.”

“Huh, not to my knowledge,” Fowler shrugged as his agents ripped Sal’s mansion apart, “and Giovanni Talerico, where is that guy?” the agent continued, “wasn’t he one of your small time bookies? What happened there—skimming a little off the top?” Fowler raised a questioning eyebrow as Sal stared at him balefully, but kept his mouth shut. “I don’t know, Salvatore, I don’t know. Your people are just disappearing around you left and right… Maybe you need to run this ship of yours a little tighter, hmm? Just a suggestion.”

Further conversation was cut off by Linda storming into the house, wild-eyed at the scandalous scene of law enforcement vehicles littering her front yard. A small crowd of nosy neighbours and passers-by were milling about, which was utterly remarkable in a community so asocial and private, one could walk the streets screaming for help for hours without notice.

“Linda, it’s been a while,” Fowler greeted her warmly, “you remain a vision.”

“What is the meaning of this?!” she demanded as she took in the chaos of her home with growing horror.

Fowler nodded to the crumpled warrant in Sal’s sweaty hand. “We have been authorized to conduct a search on the suspicion of racket—”

“Was this… _spectacle_ really necessary?!” she raged, “why are there so many of you? This is my home and I want you to stop destroying it!”

“You’re not really in a position to make demands, Mrs. Boerio,” Fowler pointed out to the irate woman and watched her bristle as he delicately used her title, “there’s a saying about lying with dogs and catching the fleas, so I guess what’s happening here is a flea infestation. However, since you asked so nicely,” Fowler raised his voice and addressed his agents as he walked away from Sal and Linda to supervise the raid, “please be thorough _and_ respectful, boys and girls. Remember this is still someone’s home, people.” The moment he said that, there was the sound of a crash from one of the upper rooms. “but accidents will happen,” he called back before disappearing towards the kitchen.

“You,” Linda spat at Sal once most of the agents were out of earshot, “what did you do?!”

“They’re fishing,” Sal grumbled, “they got nothing.”

“You have them in my home ripping everything apart!” Linda accused, “you fucking fix this; prove yourself good for something!” she said before storming up the stairs to investigate the crash.

Agent Hernandez pouted a little as she sorted through the main bedroom. The little hidey-holes she found had already been stripped clean, though she was having a blast tossing the place. The whole house reeked of ill-gotten gains, now only if she could find some solid proof.

“What are you doing?!” Hernandez and the team in the bedroom paused at the furious screech. The wife had come home apparently and Linda was beside herself, “that was a Ming vase!”

“Lady, you wish,” Hernandez scoffed, “that vase was definitely made in China, but it was far more recently. Besides, it was an accident—sorry about that.”

“I wouldn’t expect someone like you to know about these things,” Linda sniped before she went to pick up the pieces of the broken vase. It had been a while since she’d had to deal with this upheaval, though she knew she should have expected it with the current shake-up within the Outfit. As she scooped up the pieces, she was horrified to feel burning tears prickling behind her eyes. She fought them back.

“Someone like me? You mean the federal agent that’s currently crawling up your two-bit criminal husband’s ass?” Hernandez said, deliberately stepping on the piece of vase Linda was about to pick up, “I would really appreciate it if you spoke to me just a little more respectfully, Mrs. Boerio—not every Latina is a member of the help. Now please stop being in the way before you find yourself run in on an obstruction of justice charge vis-à-vis the obstruction of the execution of search warrant. Do you understand that?”

Linda bit her tongue and retreated from her bedroom, wondering when they would finally hit bottom and how she could possibly survive it.

* * *

He had worn Mickey out. Mickey had responded to Ian’s desperate fervour with matching passion, clearly just as desperate for a distraction from the current circus. Mickey had finally fallen asleep, depleted, his hand still stretched towards the phone, ready to grab it at the first sound. Ian tried to stay awake to watch him, half-afraid Mickey would creep out the moment he fell asleep. It was one of the times he missed the superpower of his mania, when he could fuck all night and still have the energy to run a marathon.

He rested his head on Mickey’s back and glanced anxiously at the phone lying on the night table, hoping to god it wouldn’t ring. He toyed with the idea of silencing the ringer or turning it off completely, but he knew Mickey wouldn’t forgive him if he did that, especially if Sal or his brothers ended up calling, so he left it alone. He could feel sleep taking over and he cuddled closer to Mickey before he surrendered to it. He blinked slowly and when he opened his eyes again, it was the middle of the night and Mickey was long gone.

* * *

Sal had managed to escape arrest this time around, though a couple of his fellow Capos had not been as lucky. It was close to midnight and he sat chain-smoking and drinking at Sandrini’s, unable to face his ransacked house and Linda’s rage. He glanced up when Mickey pulled the chair back from the table to sit with him and poured himself a drink.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Sal sniffed, “where the fuck have you been?”

“Not violating my probation,” Mickey said drily. “Heard they got Cerone and Lombardo, and scooped up a whole bunch of the lower-downs.”

“They’ll get out soon,” Sal said quietly and sipped his drink. Mickey figured he must have popped a downer or two to be this muted. “They’ll get out; business goes back to normal for the most part. Somebody’s singing, Mickey; Fowler was practically throwing it in my fucking face. About Jimmy, Giovanni…somebody’s ratting me out.”

“You shouldn’t have whacked Jimmy Accardo, Sal; now you got the made men squirrelly and pissed off. Why didn’t you run that by me before you ordered the hit?”

“Are you the fucking Capo?” Sal asked him, “since when do I need you to sanction shit? Are you my boss?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “You didn’t tell me because you knew I’d talk you out of it.”

“He was snitching on me to Tony.”

“Fuck that, he was snitching to Big Tony. What the fuck’s Tony keeping tabs on you for? You think you got something he wants? That was all in your fucking head. You’re the one who taught me the rules, Sal. Not even a Capo can touch a made man without a legit enough reason. Now at least one of your made boys is nervous and singing to the Feds.”

Sal sighed and rubbed his temple with a tired hand. “Don’t lecture me, Mickey. I get enough of that shit at home from my bitch of a wife. I don’t need it from you. What I do need you to do is to find that fucking rat fink. You find him, you flush him out, and you bring him to me. I’ll handle it personally. I’ll shove a fat fucking rat down his throat myself. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

“Good,” Sal said and refilled his and Mickey’s glasses, “loyalty seems like the fucking rarest thing lately, but I’ll have it completely and won’t stop cleaning house until I do.”

* * *

It was late the following afternoon before Mickey could get all his brothers together to take stock and come up with a game plan. They met at Sandrini’s, not trusting to meet anywhere on Sal’s property so soon after the raid.

“They definitely bugged the place,” Mickey said as he tapped the table top. “No way they came with all that heat just to toss the place and leave empty handed.”

“I saw tech vans in Lombardo’s raid,” Joey nodded.

“We’re going to have to get the place swept and cleaned before we can relax in our own fucking basement again. You get in contact with your geek buddy yet?” Mickey asked Joey.

“Yeah, he said he’ll come tomorrow and sweep for us, but he did say his rates have gone up.”

“Of fucking course they have,” Mickey snorted, not that he minded; it was Sal that was footing that bill. “He better be worth it at the end of the day.” Mickey moved on to the next item of business. “It’s only a matter of time before they hit Sandrini’s and the garages too. We gotta unload all the hot shit we have stashed around here. Dre hooked me up contacts willing to buy our pieces and we can pick up some more ghost guns in Arizona to restock. We gotta do it soon.”

“How soon?” Jaime asked.

“Tomorrow and it’s gonna take about a week on the road. I need one heavy, so which one of you fuckers is coming with me?” Mickey asked his brothers and Tony and Jaime looked at each other.

“I have my kid’s recital in a few days,” Tony began.

“Oh you don’t wanna play that game. You know how much shit I have lined up?” Jaime shot back, “I have PTA and a sit-down with Jayne’s teacher and—”

“Will you two please?!” Mickey snapped and the eldest brothers sighed and decided to play rock-paper-scissors to decide. Tony was rock; Jaime was paper and, thus, the victor.

“Best two out of three?” Tony asked hopefully.

“Fuck you,” Jaime said and then turned to Mickey, “Tony will be happy to go with you. Anything else?”

“Sal wants to handle the stool pigeon himself,” Mickey sighed.

“Yeah, we just gotta find him, bag him and hand deliver him, right?” Iggy sniffed. “You know who it is?”

“Louis ‘Lucky’ Caruso,” Mickey answered, “got his name the same time I got the tip-off about the raid. Didn’t want to tell Sal yet and have him go ape-shit.”

“I always knew Lucky was fucking shady,” Jaime grunted, “well he ain’t so lucky anymore.”

“God, you just couldn’t resist could you?” Tony groaned.

“I am who I am; I make no apologies,” Jaime said, “how soon are we making this happen?”

“As soon as you can without getting caught or jammed up. The longer he’s out there, the more he blabs.”

The brothers finally disbanded and Mickey was left alone at the bar. He covered his face with his hands, once again feeling that ever present noose tightening while he kept sinking deeper into the mess of the mob and Sal and everything that went along with them. He sighed tiredly before he picked up his phone and dialled, craving a little peace and desperate for a taste of freedom and release.

“Hey,” Ian said after he picked up after the first ring, “is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Mickey said and he wasn’t sure any more whether or not that was a lie. “Wanna go for a ride?”

* * *

“Will you hurry up? My ass is freezing,” Mickey griped as Ian took his own sweet time preparing him. The hood of the Mustang was warm from the engine and he pressed the side of his face against it, but his pants and underwear had been shoved down to his thighs and his buttocks were reddening from the cold.

“Don’t be such a baby, you wuss,” Ian said, admiring the sight of Mickey bent over the hood of the car and stroking his ass appreciatively, “I’ll make you hot in a minute.”

“Easy for you to say; I don’t see you with your cock out.”

“Are you crazy? It’s like five degrees out here,” Ian grinned at the back of Mickey’s head.

They had made it back to Milwaukee, to their little hill overlooking the sports field. They used a small copse of trees as a means of cover, but that it was the middle of the night in the dead of winter seemed like insurance enough. Mickey gasped then groaned when Ian eased a couple well-lubricated fingers into him, slowly probing and stretching until Mickey was clenching around his fingers and writhing with impatience.

“Can you do the voyeur shit when we’re somewhere warm, please?” Mickey growled, “just get on me already.”

“Hardly a voyeur when I’m right here in the middle of it,” Ian said as he unzipped his jeans.

“Whatever fucking word you’d use, just haa—” Mickey trailed off into a sharp moan as Ian thrust into him. He bit his lip to keep his voice down and pressed his forehead against the hood of the car as large, warm hands groped his ass and Ian’s hips snapped against him in a quick tempo.

“Fuck me hard,” Mickey begged and he didn’t have to ask twice. He gripped the edge of the hood tightly while the world shrank to just him, Ian and the Mustang on that small hill. When Ian’s hand snaked into his hair to grip it tightly and yank his head back, Mickey marvelled at how perfect it all was and how amazing it felt. There was nothing better than the moment when the bubble formed and they were safe inside it and everything and everyone else were locked outside.

Ian came first, groaning long and low before slumping against Mickey’s back. “Did you come?” he asked huskily and raised an eyebrow when Mickey shook his head. He pulled back and flipped Mickey around to face him. He smirked a little at Mickey’s straining erection and idly trailed his finger up the underside of it from root to tip, making Mickey whine from the sensation and climb onto his tiptoes to follow the feeling.

“Why not?” Ian asked, “you must have been dying to come.”

“I’m not spurting all over my car!” Mickey replied, sounding offended.

Ian rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. “What, you got acid jizz or something? What would it have done to the paint job?”

“Goddamn it, just—” he yanked down hard on Ian’s jacket, forcing the redhead to his knees. Ian laughed as he knelt, teasing his boyfriend just a little bit longer before taking him into his mouth and sucking him off.

Mickey came almost immediately, spilling into Ian’s mouth and sagging with repletion against the hood of his car. Ian got to his feet, grinning irrepressibly at Mickey while he pulled up his pants and zipped them.

“That was alright,” Mickey grinned and licked at the corner of his mouth as he hopped up onto the car and ran a hand through his hair. He hooked his leg behind Ian’s knee and pulled him forward so Ian was standing between his legs and leaning into him.

“I just fucked you on top of the Mustang,” Ian said gleefully, “I can die happy and fulfilled now.”

Mickey snorted, “that’s all you have on your bucket list? I haven’t even shown you the Impala yet and that actually has a backseat.”

“God, you’re right. I’ve been looking at this all wrong. Now I can’t die until I’ve fucked you on and in every make and model of car in existence. How long do you think that should take?”

“A while,” Mickey said, “but a health nut like you should be around forever, with the amount of vitamins and supplements you shotgun every day,” Mickey said, careful to keep his tone light. He glanced up at Ian and saw the easy smile dim.

“Uh, yeah, when you work out a lot and live on a college student’s diet, you gotta make sure you fill in the gaps, you know?” Ian laughed a little awkwardly and Mickey knew a distracting kiss would be coming next. He let Ian kiss him and he let the subject go for now. Whatever the issue was, Ian wasn’t ready to share it and Mickey wasn’t about to push. He just wished he knew if it was something to freak out about.

By the time Ian pulled back, his discomfiture had dissipated; perhaps confident he’d derailed Mickey’s thoughts for the time being. He ran his thumb along Mickey’s lower lip and smiled softly in that way that never failed to make Mickey weak and flustered. Sometimes Ian looked at him as if he was everything, like he was the only thing that mattered in the universe, as if he was whole and clean. It made Mickey’s heart pound and his palms sweat and he squirmed a bit under the look.

“What? What is it now, weirdo?” Mickey huffed.

“I can’t believe you’re actually real sometimes, I swear to god, and you’re here!” Ian laughed and tugged the hood of Mickey’s camo jacket down over his eyes. “Alex told me you were out there and I didn’t really believe her. Now I’m just so mad. Why didn’t you show up from the very beginning? Why weren’t you here from day one?”

“Sorry,” Mickey said, making Ian laugh again at the way Mickey willing enabled his absurdity. “I’m here now though and maybe it was best I didn’t know you from the start. We’d have just ended up being buddies or some shit. Maybe I’d just rob you every day.”

“Nah, we could never be platonic, ever,” Ian said as he head butted Mickey gently, “you’d see me and know immediately that you just had to have me.”

“Please, you looked like a fucking puppy back then; you’d have been too cute to fuck. You probably had fuzzy ears and a tail and shit.” Mickey reached up and tickled Ian’s ears, “I can’t believe you lost it at thirteen; cold fucker who took it should have PETA on his ass.”

“Fuck you, I should have never shown you those pictures. I’ll have you know I was a fucking stallion at thirteen.”

“Gross, you child.”

“Because losing it at fifteen is such a huge improvement?” Ian said against the column of Mickey’s throat.

“Fuck yeah, it is! I was a man at fifteen. You know how much shit I’d done by then? Plus, I never had a cute period.”

“Oh I’m sure—you were born looking exactly like this,” Ian said drily.

“I was.”

“I believe you; your height sure stayed the same.”

“Oh fuck you—” Mickey laughed and was cut off by Ian’s lips covering his again. He kissed back eagerly and gripped Ian’s jacket for balance as Ian pushed against him. They quickly got lost in the moment until Ian heard his least favourite sound in the world—Mickey’s phone going off.

“Are you kidding me?” Ian sighed heavily as Mickey pulled back and retrieved his phone to read the text. He could tell from Mickey’s sigh that their evening was effectively over; the bubble had popped once again.

“I gotta get back to Chicago,” Mickey sighed again.

“Why? Why do you have to go back right this minute?” Ian demanded, “what’s happening back in Chicago?”

“What did I say about asking me about that shit?”

Ian let out a howl of frustration. “I fucking hate that rule! Why can’t I ask you a simple fucking question?! This ‘shit’—” Ian said, pointing at Mickey’s phone, “—is such a huge part of your life. Sometimes I feel it’s your whole life and I’m not supposed to be privy to any of that?”

“I told you before that none of this has anything to do with you and it’s gonna stay that way.”

“But it has to do with me,” Ian yelled back, exasperated, “it’s about you, so it matters to me; ergo, that shit matters to me. There’s this whole side of you I’m not allowed to know at all, that I’m just supposed to ignore? I tell you all my shit—”

“Do you?!” Mickey snapped and Ian faltered a bit.

“Everything that matters,” Ian said far more quietly.

“Well it’s the same with this,” Mickey said and pocketed his phone. “Everything about the business is on a need to know basis and you don’t need to know. We just need to figure out how to get you out of this mess with your skin intact and you can put this soul-suck behind you and not look back.”

“And where will you be?” Ian asked pointedly, making Mickey blink at him nonplussed, “when I’m putting this all behind me and leaving this far, far behind…where exactly are you supposed to be? You keep saying that but you never say what will happen to us.”

Mickey rubbed at his lower lip with his thumb in agitation. “Ian, I’m not having this conversation right now. Jesus, can I just deal with this stupid shit before I deal with your stupid shit, because I can’t right now, alright?” Mickey said and got in the car, “so are you coming or would you rather find your own way back home?”

Ian looked to the heavens and counted to ten before he eventually got in the car.

* * *

It was a silent ride back—Mickey keeping his eyes on the road and Ian staring wordlessly out the window. After a while, Mickey started glancing over at his passenger, unused to and uncomfortable with Ian staying quiet for so long. There wasn’t even the stubborn jut of his chin that Ian always had when he was pissed off. His boyfriend just looked tired and deflated, and perhaps simply out of things to say.

Mickey wasn’t about to apologize. How could he? What would he be apologizing for—reality? He wanted Ian far away from the deadly quicksand that was the mob life. It was a life he was stuck in and from which there was no viable escape. The only people who were happy and content in this mess were the wise guys at the top and even for them, the power and the plusses were temporary. Prison or the grave—that’s what the life boiled down to for most of them and he wouldn’t wish this mess on his worst enemy, let alone Ian. At some point, they would come to a fork in the road and Mickey knew it was coming and he’d deal with it then, but for now, he just wanted the bubble. He couldn’t bring himself to apologize for that either.

It was both the longest car ride and the shortest, but eventually they pulled up in front of Ian’s building. Mickey glanced at Ian nervously as the engine idled and ran his fingers through his hair. “Do you want me to call you when I get ba—” Mickey trailed off as Ian exited the car mid-sentence, still without saying a word. He swiped a hand across his face and waited until the lights came on in Ian’s apartment before he pulled away.

* * *

Mickey changed cars and coats before he set off to one of the empty warehouses down by the docks. He pulled up to the dimly lit building where Jaime was waiting for him outside. He could already hear the dull thuds and smack of flesh laying into flesh as he neared the door, and his brother immediately handed him a pair of gloves.

“How the fuck did you get him so fast?” Mickey asked as he slipped on the gloves.

“Trailed him after he left Sandrini’s tonight… He had come on his own, the dumb fuck. Told you he wasn’t so lucky anymore.”

Tony was already inside, leaning against the wall next to the door as he took in the macabre show that was Sal working someone over.  Lucky Caruso was a bloody mess in the middle of the massive, empty warehouse. There was just the lights and Sal and Lucky’s battered form handcuffed to a chair, whimpering after each blow landed.

It was a rare thing now for Sal to get his hands this dirty, the expert delegator that he had become. So it was easy for Mickey to forget just what a juggernaut he could be when his blood was up. Mickey didn’t know if it was because of, or in spite of the drugs, booze and vice, but once Sal got going he seemed impossible to stop. The gangster was panting hard, but his next blow landed with a sickening crunch and both the chair and Lucky were sent crashing over.

“We were family,” Sal said quietly as he stood over the fallen man. “I sponsored you myself, told Carlisi you were golden. Yet after all this time, you do this?”

Lucky sobbed, whether it was from fear, or pain, or shame, Mickey could only guess. “They had me jammed up, Sal,” the man garbled through a mouth full of blood and broken teeth. He cried pitifully, “I didn’t have a choice, Sal. I didn’t have a choice.”

Sal grabbed the back of the chair and dragged it and its occupant upright with a hard heave. He turned to Tony and held out his hand, and Tony pulled out his gun with its attached silencer. “There’s always a choice, Lucky; you just made the wrong one.”

The brothers knew it was coming, but they all still jolted a bit when the gun went off. It was never like in the movies with the gentle - _thwp-_  of a bullet suppressed by a Hollywood silencer. Death rarely came quietly for people like them and the pop of the gunshot still reverberated through the warehouse. Lucky had been hit squarely in the chest, his mouth gaping open conveniently.

“Where is it?” Sal asked.

Jaime glanced at Mickey before handing Sal the plastic bag that had been resting on the floor, and Sal methodically retrieved its contents and completed his task. A couple days later, Louis ‘Lucky’ Caruso would be found miles away from his murder scene, washed clean, bound and gagged, with a filthy rat shoved into his mouth.

* * *

Ian stirred at the sound of the lock on his front door being opened. He twisted to look behind him, not taking it for granted that it had to be Mickey. His boyfriend was surprised to find that he was still awake and their eyes held for a moment before Ian went back to facing the window. He listened as Mickey moved around his apartment, helplessly pleased and soothed by those small, familiar noises—Mickey’s keys and watch falling onto the night table, the slide of fabric as Mickey shed his clothes and the creak of the bed as Mickey climbed into it.

He held out for a while and just kept staring at his shifting curtains, even as Mickey hesitantly edged closer and reached out. When Mickey curled against his back and kissed his shoulder, his resolve melted and he finally flipped over. They stared at each other for what felt like forever and Ian sighed in defeat as he slipped his hand around Mickey’s waist and tugged him closer.

“Long night?” Ian asked, “and don’t worry, that was a rhetorical question.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” Mickey said after a while, “it’s just…I need to keep you clean, Ian. I made a promise that I wouldn’t let this shit touch you.” Mickey continued and Ian frowned at how tired and downbeat he sounded. “But I’m not—I’m not clean.”

Clearly something major had gone down that night and he knew Mickey wasn’t at the place to trust him with it yet. Still, there were other parts that could be addressed.

“What does that even mean? I’m not clean, Mick, believe me, that’s the last word anyone should use to describe me. I don’t want you to hold on to this image that I’m something I’m not. Whatever you’re doing is no worse than the shit I’ve done.” Ian frowned when Mickey snorted loudly at his highly dubious claim and squeezed Mickey’s hip. “Don’t use that bullshit to lock me out. I’m not interested in ‘clean,’ I just want to be with you and know you’re okay.”

Mickey didn’t have the slightest clue how to respond to that, so he stayed quiet, shuffled closer and let Ian take care of him.

* * *

There was obviously a lot on Mickey’s mind, Ian realized, because the man’s eyebrows had woken up long before he had. Indeed, the first thing Mickey did when he blearily opened his eyes was to run down his insane to-do list. He had to rally his brothers to help him gather all the hot pieces from the stash houses and get them packed up in one of the cars with a large enough hidden compartment. He had to pick up the contact list from Dre and get on Tony’s ass so they could leave by a decent time…

“I love you.”

Shit, there were still collections to do. He’d have to coordinate Iggy, Joey and Jaime to cover all the collections and drop-offs. He wondered if he should gas up the car now or wait until they were on their way. He had to pack some shit and get the cash to cover the ghost gun purchases and trip expenses. He was not sharing a bed with Tony while on the road—not after the last time.

Ian tapped his fingers on Mickey’s chest as the man gazed sleepily at the ceiling. He had been waiting patiently since dawn for Mickey to wake up so he could tell him. He wanted Mickey awake, so there was no mistaking his confession, but not too awake lest he freak out. Maybe he hadn’t gotten the balance right, because it didn’t even seem as if Mickey had heard him.

“I love you,” he tried again, a little louder and more forcefully this time. Mickey merely grunted in what may or may not have been a response. Mickey’s phone then went off, jangling Ian’s nerves even further because when Sal sneezed, it was Mickey who caught the cold. Mickey was up and yanking on his clothes in a flash. Before Ian could even gather his wits, Mickey was climbing back into bed to give him a quick kiss goodbye and was out the door a minute later.

That put Ian’s mood on a steep, downward slide from that moment out. It certainly didn’t improve when Iggy came to get him on Sal’s orders while Mickey and the rest ran about like headless chickens. Sal took one look at the dark look on Ian’s face, smelled the brimstone, and decided to leave him be for a while. Mickey appeared not long afterwards and approached him at his usual spot at the kitchen island after double checking that the coast was clear.

“Hey,” Mickey said softly and let his fingers ghost over Ian’s hand. “I got so distracted earlier that I didn’t even get to talk to you this morning.”

Ian had never felt more pathetic than he did right then, because his black mood evaporated instantly and he could not help the hopeful puppy look on his face. Maybe his confession hadn’t been a bust after all.

“I’m going on a run tonight. Me and Tony will be gone for about a week. I just needed you to know so you don’t form a search party.”

There was a moment of silence as Ian’s expectant look crumbled. “Is that it?” he asked sharply.

“Uh yeah, I guess, um…you want me to bring you back something?”

Ian’s black mood came back with a fury, “no,” he snapped at Mickey as he stood up and gathered his books. “I don’t want anything from you.”

Mickey was left confused and off balance by the venom. “Ian?!” he called after his pissed off boyfriend, but backed off when Sal came trudging downstairs. An hour later, he left with Tony to go on the run without further word with Ian.

* * *

Ian ignored Mickey’s texts and calls for the rest of that night and for much of the following day. He was still smarting from the perceived rejection and it didn’t help that he was still having marked difficulty performing with Sal. He ended up claiming an upset stomach and fortunately a half-hearted hand-job was enough to earn him a pass for the rest of the night. He stayed awake in the chair while Sal slept, forced to spend the night while the remaining Milkoviches covered their brothers’ absence. Near midnight, his phone buzzed softly and this time he slipped off to the bathroom to answer it.

“What?” he answered brusquely.

“What did I say about interfering with my business?” Mickey asked, calling from god knows where while he did god knows what.

“I’m not even allowed to ask about it, how the fuck am I interfering with it?”

“I was distracted today,” Mickey told him, “I almost made a mistake. I can’t have that.”

The twinge of alarm and concern he felt was annoying. “Why were you distracted then?”

“Because you’re mad at me for some reason, asshole. I don’t like it when you’re mad; that’s what’s distracting. So what did I do now?”

Ian peeped through the tiny slit he left between the bathroom door and the jamb to check that Sal was still out. He then turned his attention back to Mickey and spoke in a harsh whisper. “How could you not know what you did?!”

“Oh god, can we please not play that game?! It’s hard enough for me to keep up with you as it is. Just tell me, Ian.”

“It’s about what I said to you?”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, I don’t expect you to say anything back if you don’t want to or if—or if,” Ian faltered a little, “—or if you’re not feeling it or whatever, but it’s a pretty fucking major thing to admit to someone, so the least you could do is acknowledge it a little bit.”

“What are you on about?”

Ian sighed heavily and looked through the slit again, though he could hear Sal snoring defiantly from where he stood. He hesitated to say it again, feeling as if he’d be casting his net into empty waters and he wasn’t sure if he could take the rejection another time.

“I told you I loved you,” he mumbled hurriedly, “and you didn’t say—you didn’t respond.”

“When, which time?”

“What do you mean which time?”

“Ian, you say that shit all the time.”

“…no, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” Mickey laughed, “usually right before you come, or right after you come, or during. You never say anything afterwards so I just figured it’s a thing you do. To be fair, you do come off as the type of guy who’d say ‘I love you’ to his dinner.”

“Well I’m not,” Ian murmured, thoroughly confused and suspicious of this revelation. “And even if that were the case, I said it to you yesterday morning and I was most definitely not coming, so…”

“Ah really, fuck, I’m sorry. I was just thinking about a million things; it didn’t even register like that,” Mickey said earnestly, “in my defence, I kinda thought it was pretty fucking obvious. You’re the talker, Ian, you’re comfortable doing that, but not everyone gets to blurt out how they feel every minute or knows how to.”

It was the absolute worst the way his emotions could be changed on a dime like that. He both loved and hated that Mickey had this kind of power. “So…are you saying you do?” he asked tentatively.

“Of course I do,” Mickey said easily, “Ian, I l—”

“No!”

“Jesus fuck what?”

Ian buried his face in his hand, feeling absolutely ridiculous even while his heart was racing. “Not—not over the phone.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“I know, I know, just indulge me okay. I want you to say it in person.”

Mickey sighed, “you nutcase.”

Ian only grinned into the phone as he rocked on the balls of his feet. The word hadn’t stung in the slightest. For the moment, he was bulletproof.

“But you know that I do though?”

“Yes,” Ian said and did his Sal check before he continued, “how long until you come back?”

“Still about a week.”

“Okay, don’t touch yourself until then.”

That came straight out of left field for Mickey. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said, employing Mickey’s phrase, “hands off until I see you.”

“It’s for a whole week though!”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Ian chastised, “you know I’ll make it worth your while.”

* * *

This promised to be an awkward conversation, but Ian had to know. He knocked on Gabriela’s door and smiled winningly when the young woman answered her door. They greeted each other warmly before she floated away from her open door as was her wont and he stepped in after her. He decided to get right to it.

“So, um ok, this is going to be kind of a weird question to say the least,” he began and she was clearly all ears. “But, um, when you hear me and Mickey, uh, together, have you ever heard me say ‘I love you’?”

“Oh yeah, you say it all the time,” she responded “usually right around the time you’re sharing your essence with him.”

“Right…”

“Don’t tell me he’s freaked out by it?” she asked, concerned, “because, and don’t get me wrong, you seem like the kind of guy who’d say I love you to a really good burger.”

“Oh okay, I’m really not though,” Ian sighed, “and it’s fine, he’s not freaking out. I just wasn’t aware that I was doing it.”

“That’s not so strange at all,” she said airily, “Victor yells out football plays.”

“So that’s what’s happening. I was wondering how you were playing touch football in an apartment this small.”

“It’s just the raw emotion and purity of the moment, it just overwhelms all sense of restraint and your true thoughts come tumbling out.”

“Like sometimes when we touch, the honesty’s too much?” Ian asked drily.

“That’s beautiful. You should write that down,” she said and Ian was almost positive half her personality was created just to fuck with people.

“I need to go. Um, thank you, Gabby, for the info.”

“It’s my ongoing pleasure, Ian; nurture nature!”

Now he was positive she was fucking with him.

* * *

Four days later, Ian answered a knock at his door to find Mickey leaning tiredly against the opposite wall. He stared at him in shock for a moment, having received no warning that Mickey was coming.

“What are you doing back already?!” Ian asked, immediately reaching for him, “you’re not supposed to be back for another two days.”

“No stopovers, no hotels, barely any pit stops on the way back,” Mickey explained as he was pulled away from the wall by his jacket. “Me and Tony tag team drove all the way home. He’d drive and I’d sleep, then I’d drive and he try to blow the roof off the car,” Mickey yawned, “the way we saw it, if we pushed it hard enough, he’d make it back in time for AJ’s recital and I’d make it back to you.” Mickey smiled and it was honestly the best thing Ian had seen in his life. “Sal doesn’t know we’re back in town, so I figure that buys me a couple days downtime,” he said suggestively. “We’re pretty much running on fumes now, but we’re here. The things we do for love, right?”

Ian only smiled and yanked Mickey the rest of the way inside.


	21. Dangerous Liasions

_It was surreal. For weeks his mind had been racing nonstop, almost out of control, and now he was struggling just to get it going. He felt as if he was sinking, somehow still breathing as he went further down into the murky depths. He could feel the water closing over his head as he was submerged and he raised his hand, reaching upwards in a vain attempt to breach the surface._

_“Meds doing a real number on you, huh?”_

_The voice surprised him, floating over to him out of nowhere. He slowly turned his head to see who else was there with him underwater. Ian finally found her, the only other person sitting with him in the tiny waiting area. He didn’t know how he had missed her before. Had she been there when he came in, or had she joined him as he sat zoned out in the shrink’s rundown waiting room? Either way, he was clearly out of it because the girl was hard to miss. Jet black hair in long pigtails, heavy kohled eyes, black lipstick and nail polish; black leather jacket atop a fluffy black tutu with fishnets and tall, heavy, thick-soled boots—the girl was the whole nine yards of Hot Topic and then some._

_“I’m Alex, clinically depressed,” she said to him and waved awkwardly, “who are you and what’s your malfunction?”_

_Malfunction—that was certainly a heck of a way to put it. Maybe that’s what was really happening to him, he was now a malfunctioning human being. For some reason it almost made him laugh. It would have been the first time he’d done that since the involuntary commitment. He’d been out of control, they had told him; he’d been acting like a fucking psychopath, they had said. To him, that was debatable. He had only been defending himself after all._

_He had just needed a little money to get out of Chicago—head down to Florida maybe—and he had bartered some of his time and company for the cash. The jackass had gone too far, suddenly demanding way more than Ian had been willing to give. So Ian had dropped him—he honestly hadn’t realized how hard he’d been hitting—had taken the man’s keys, jumped in his car, and was out of there like a bat out of hell._

_He had felt as if they were after him the second his foot touched the gas, and suddenly they were all coming: the cops, the army, demons, everyone and everything. He had floored it, determined to never look back, never let them catch him, escape all this shit somehow. It wasn’t until he heard the piercing cries that he even realized there was a baby in the backseat. Somehow he had missed the infant completely, just as how he had missed the young woman now._

_“I’m Ian and they say I’m bipolar,” he said thickly and stared up at the ceiling, weighed down under the heavy blanket of calming and stabilizing medication. All he could think about was whether or not he would ever surface again._

_“‘They say,’ huh? Yeah, it’s going to be hell for a while accepting that shit,” Alex said and stared down at the shiny buckles on her boots, “me, it’s depression and dysphoria and maybe even a personality disorder or two, because why the fuck not?”_

_Ian let his head loll to the side so he could stare at her for a moment, “dysphoria?”_

_“Oh, it’s like there’s something about your body you really hate and it kinda fucks with your head,” she informed him._

_He looked at her some more and felt slightly perplexed, “but you’re really pretty.”_

_She giggle-snorted, much to her mortification and quickly looked away. She was—as ever—a complete mess around attractive men. As stoned and jaded as Ian was at the moment, he was as attractive as they come._

_“Yeah well, thanks, but it’s not so much my face that’s bothering me as it is my dick.”_

_It was amazing how uniform the reaction to that reveal could be across the board. Ian, evidently dosed up to his hair and tripping balls, still did the squint and lean she’d come to expect from the uninitiated, as if they were searching for some sort of clue or confirmation._

_“You’re a dude?”_

_Alex let out an exasperated, pained laugh. “No, I’m not, so that’s kind of the problem.”_

_“Oh, sorry,” Ian said and went back to slumping tiredly in his chair._

_“She’s pretty good, you know, Dr. Lester,” Alex offered up again, feeling weirdly chatty and eager to engage this barely conscious individual. “She’s tough, but she’s sweet and cool, and she’ll tweak the meds so you don’t feel like a freaking zombie all the time.”_

_Ian shrugged at the endorsement for it was neither here nor there. Dr. Lester accepted Medicaid and met the requirements of his conditional release, and that’s all he cared about. Still, it would be nice to re-emerge from Zombie land and maybe somehow manage to breach the surface again._

* * *

It always felt like coming up for air when they were together like this. He braced over Mickey and squeezed his thigh before he dipped his head and brushed his lips over Mickey’s ribcage. Mickey gasped and arched up towards him, straining against the tie binding his hands to the headboard.

“Keep that up, idiot, and you’re going to rub your wrists raw,” Ian warned as he pushed Mickey back down into the bed. He dragged his tongue over Mickey’s nipple, then nipped down along his ribcage as he worked his way towards his boyfriend’s pelvis.

“When are you going to let me go?” Mickey whined, instinctively thrusting upwards as Ian’s chest brushed against his cock.

_“Never,”_ Ian thought to himself and planted a kiss right above Mickey’s happy trail.

“Why won’t you untie this shit already?” Mickey said again as he tugged against the tie. It was one of his that Ian had pilfered one early morning when Mickey had been running too late and was far too replete to reclaim it. He had left Ian with the tie, never once imagining the plans Ian had in mind.

Ian wasn’t about to untie Mickey any time soon if he could help it. He wanted to be slow and thorough and Mickey would soon become self-conscious about the intense attention Ian was paying to his body and grow impatient. The minute Mickey’s hands were free, he’d try to shift things into overdrive and Ian would give in too easily. Right now all he wanted to do was worship, so Mickey would remain bound.

“You don’t like it?” Ian asked, looking up at Mickey after nipping at his hip.

Mickey squirmed, his face reddening under Ian’s heated gaze. He made the hottest picture to Ian, from the flush of his face to the bulge of his biceps and the way his chest heaved from arousal. “I didn’t say that,” he murmured.

Ian smirked and surged over Mickey until their faces were only a breath apart. “Do you like it then?”

Mickey didn’t answer out loud, but rather arched to press his body against Ian’s, licking his lower lip languidly and looking at him softly. It was as clear an answer as any. Ian slipped his hand between Mickey’s thighs and gently massaged his testes and rubbed his thumb over Mickey’s perineum. He teased Mickey a little by pushing his middle finger inside him, where he was warm, slick and loose, and waiting. Ian quickly pulled his finger back out.

“Tell me how you want it,” Ian whispered as his hand brushed the root of Mickey’s cock and the blue eyes fluttered closed. “You want it hard and fast?” Ian asked and Mickey bit his lip hard as he thrust into Ian’s grasp. He nodded eagerly and moaned as Ian slowly pumped his erection. Still, Ian made no immediate move to mount him. Instead, Ian jerked him off slowly and firmly while lying alongside him and bit gently into Mickey’s bicep before nuzzling his ear. “You always say you want it hard and fast, but when I take you nice and slow, you come just as hard. Be honest, how do you want it?”

“Any way you want to give it to me,” Mickey moaned and he could feel Ian’s smile against his cheek. In the next moment, Ian was on top of him and between his thighs and pushing into him, leaving them both breathless.

“That’s so good,” Ian gasped and grasped the headboard as he rocked into Mickey, “that was the perfect answer. You’re so good; so perfect,” he stroked Mickey’s face with his free hand, and Mickey captured his thumb to suck on it. He groaned when Mickey wrapped his legs around his hips and his pace quickened. “I always want it to be good for you,” he told Mickey and pulled his hand away from Mickey’s face so he could grip his hip. Their breathing grew harsher and heavier, and soon the familiar protest from the bed started up again.

Ian gripped the headboard as he rode Mickey hard, relishing Mickey’s loud cries and groans of pleasure. “Don’t come,” he ordered Mickey and gripped the base of Mickey’s cock, “not until you’re in my mouth,” he said. He wasn’t even sure if Mickey heard him. The man’s eyes were closed and his head was thrown back and he was as lost as Ian was to the overwhelming sensation of it all. Ian came with a harsh grunt of Mickey’s name and collapsed in a heap on top of him.

Mickey gave him a second to rest before an impatient squirm reminded Ian that he still had a job to do. Ian shuffled backwards and gave Mickey’s leaking erection an appreciative lick before sucking lightly on the head of it and ultimately sucking Mickey down entirely. He watched Mickey closely as he sucked him off and when Mickey’s bruised lips parted and his body tensed, Ian was more than ready for what came next.

“Seems about right,” Ian said after he swallowed, “guess you were obedient after all.”

“Oh fuck off, you can’t tell like that,” Mickey snorted as Ian crawled up to him. “I mean yeah I was, but you can’t tell like that.”

Ian simply wiggled his eyebrows, “some people can read palms, some people can gauge volumes of bodily emissions. Don’t question my talents.”

“You’re so gross,” Mickey said softly and watched the dissipation of Ian the dominant, and the return of the eager, smitten puppy. Mickey honestly didn’t know which one he loved more. Ian undid the knots in the tie and freed Mickey before settling on his chest and gazing up at him, grinning dopily the whole time. Mickey flexed his wrists and arms a little and promptly grabbed Ian by the hair and hauled him up for a kiss. Ian readily complied and by the time he pulled back, they were both buzzing.

“Hi,” Ian sighed happily and Mickey had to roll his eyes as he laughed.

“How are you this lame? You’re too hot to be this lame.”

“I’m lame, but you love me,” Ian said as he settled beside Mickey and cuddled him close.

“Yeah,” Mickey murmured, “yes I do, asswipe.”

* * *

Ian was still fast asleep when Mickey was sitting up in bed examining his deeply wrinkled tie. If anyone had told him a few months ago that he would willingly let someone tie him to a bed for whatever reason, he would say they were insane. Now, his cock twitched at the sight and feel of the silk and he glanced at Ian who was still flat on his back, sleeping the sleep of the innocent. Mickey ran his fingers over the tie and went through a quick mental checklist of all the things he had done with Ian that he would have thought unimaginable before. It was a pretty long list and getting longer and more extreme each day. He glanced over at Ian again and kicked him awake.

“The fuck?” Ian grumbled and Mickey unceremoniously dropped the tie onto his face. Ian picked it up and looked questioningly at Mickey.

“I wasn’t sure if I liked it,” Mickey lied blatantly, bringing out Ian’s knowing smirk, “let’s try it again to make sure.”

It wasn’t long before Ian was inside Mickey again, thrusting in deep, measured strokes while Mickey babbled his name beneath him. He sat back and hooked his arms under the back of Mickey’s knees, almost lifting the man clear off the bed at times. He took his time and rocked forwards, burying himself to the hilt with each thrust.

“Oh fuck…oh fuck,” Ian gasped as the tension built. As he continued, something caught his attention from the corner of his eye, a slight movement through the curtains on the street below. Distracted, he turned his head a little to make out what it was and his heartbeat quickened at the sight because he was just as conditioned to the Escalade as he was to the Mustang. It took him a second to realize the problem, because there was no way Mickey could be parking that car downstairs when he was tied to Ian’s bed. Mickey didn’t even have a car at the moment; Tony had simply dropped him off. His rhythm stuttered and stalled as he watched the Escalade park, and when the doors opened, he immediately lost his shit. “Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh FUCK!” he said frantically as pulled out of Mickey and tumbled off the bed.

“Wha—What’s happening?” Mickey said dazedly, slowly surfacing from the fog of arousal.

“Sal!” with Jaime as his driver to boot.

Mickey blinked uncomprehendingly, but it soon hit him like a ton of bricks as he watched Ian haphazardly tugging on clothes. “What?! Here?! Now?!” Mickey tried to get up but nearly ended up pulling his arms out of socket. “What the fuck are you doing? Get this shit off me!”

“Oh shit, fuck!” Ian said and dived back onto the bed. In his haste and nervousness, he fumbled terribly with the knots. What was worse, every time he loosened one, Mickey in his own panic would tug hard and tighten them again. “Jesus, Sal must be in the elevator by now!”

Sal was indeed in the elevator and on his way up, though somewhat hampered by Jaime inexplicably hitting all the buttons up to Ian’s eighth floor. Sal was nonplussed.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” he asked Jaime.

“Huh?” Jaime said and followed Sal’s pointed stare to all the lit numbers, “oh shit, didn’t even realize that I did that. It’s a thing I do with Jayne, you know, press all the buttons when the elevator is empty,” Jaime said, laughing awkwardly.

“Oh,” Sal grunted and scratched the back of his neck, “kids can be fucking weird. Uh, how are your kids?”

“They’re good, they-they’re real good, Sal. JJ’s starting preschool and Jayne’s deep into her princess phase.”

“Heh, prepare yourself because the princess phase never fucking ends. It might evolve, but it never ends.”

When they finally made it to the correct floor, Jaime let out a colossal, door-rattling sneeze as they stepped off the elevator. Sal immediately shied away from him, startled and fearing germs. “The hell?”

“Allergies,” Jaime explained, “something on this floor just got to me.”

Ian had just managed to free Mickey when the cannon blast of a sneeze froze them. “Shit, Jaime, they’re on the floor!” Mickey said and scrambled off the bed. He hustled to gather up his clothes and belongings, but Ian ended up shoving him into the bathroom and tossing his things in after him.

Ian dove to cover his bed with his comforter, concealing the sweaty, rumpled sheets from view. He opened the window and welcomed the blast of chilly air to hopefully flush out the scent and heat of sex, and shock him into calming down. He jumped at the heavy knock on the door and he decided to quickly light some incense just in case.

“Uh, who is it?” he asked as his head whipped around, looking frantically for any signs of Mickey he may have missed.

“It’s the plumber, I’ve come to fix the sink,” Sal sang out.

Ian gave one last nervous look towards the bathroom before he took a steadying breath and went to open the door. Opening it to find Sal and Jaime filling his doorway and boring holes into him would have probably killed him if he hadn’t been ready. “Jesus, Sal, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m over the moon to see you too, sunshine,” Sal said, rolling his eyes, “am I allowed to come in?”

Ian backed up and Jaime surprised Sal by quickly stepping inside first. “Why the fuck are you even here right now?” Sal asked, growing exasperated with his driver. Mickey needed to haul his ass back from wherever the fuck he was before Sal ended up murdering his moron brothers out of sheer annoyance. Jaime winced a little but did a quick sweep of the tiny studio.

“I’m just making sure it’s all clear, Sal,” Jaime said as he used his body to block Sal’s view of the nightstand where Mickey’s watch lay exposed while Ian’s matching one rested on the other stand. “Times are crazy, you know? Mickey said to sweep everywhere—can’t be too careful.”

Sal rolled his eyes and went over to Ian while Jaime stealthily tucked away the lingering signs of his brother. “Some family of mine is here from the Old Country, couple neighborhoods over. Honestly, I’d rather go to them than have them come to me. I swear to god, it’s like they stepped out of the eighteen hundreds; fucking goat herders,” Sal sighed, “coming so close, I thought I’d come see you, and then it occurred to me, I’ve never seen the inside of this place.”

“Ah well nothing much to see,” Ian shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and looked around. Sal grunted his agreement and it was obvious the apartment was not to his taste. The older man did a poor job of hiding his disdain and despite the peril of the situation, Ian couldn’t help but bristle defensively. “This is as good as it gets for a Southside college kid with no money.”

“Nah, you’re meant for far better things,” Sal said and patted Ian on the cheek, “it’s freezing in here. Why the fuck would you have the window open?”

“Uh, Sal, we should probably get going, you still have that meeting later—” Jaime began hesitantly.

“Why the fuck are you still in here?! Get out!” Sal roared and Jaime clapped his mouth shut. He slowly drifted towards the door, still not quite making it to the other side when Sal turned his attention back to Ian.

“Unfortunately, Curly the Stooge over there is right. I can only drop in on you for a second; got so much shit to do before the day’s done,” Sal said distractedly as he ran his hand up Ian’s forearms. He seemed to be saying goodbye and Ian was on the cusp of relief when Sal made his heart stop. “That your bathroom? I need to take a piss before I get outta here.”

Ian sputtered incoherently as Sal walked over to the bathroom, opened the door and stepped inside. He could only stare, horrified, as Sal locked the door behind him, and Ian fisted both his hands in his hair. Jaime caught on to the dilemma immediately.

“He’s in there?” Jaime whispered harshly and Ian’s ashen face was answer enough. They both stared helplessly at the door, at a total loss as they waited for the explosion. Jaime’s hand hovered over his concealed gun, wondering just what the fuck he was going to have to do within the next few seconds.

* * *

Mickey’s heart plummeted into his guts when he heard the door open and the all too familiar plod of Sal’s footsteps coming inside. He was clad only in his boxer-briefs, gripping his belongings for dear life as the cold of the small bathtub bit into his bare soles. He was hidden from detection only by the sad shower curtain and when Sal’s arm brushed against it, he honestly didn’t know how his knees didn’t give out. He held his breath and prayed to every god he’d ever heard about that nothing slipped from his grasp or his stomach didn’t growl or any such shit. His heart thundered so hard in his chest, it had to be a miracle that Sal had yet to hear it.

Sal cleared his sinuses loudly and tried to make himself as small as possible in the confined space. He hated places like this: cramped, grimy, rundown; it made his skin crawl. There seemed almost no way to make these places seem clean, even though he knew Ian kept himself and his surroundings as spotless as possible. Still, everything looked and felt gross to him and the closeness of the quarters made him hyperaware of his own bulk and awkwardness as he moved. He didn’t want to come in contact with anything, didn’t want to inhale the air. Now he remembered why he’d never made the trip up here to see Ian, it was obvious from the neighbourhood and the rundown façade that this apartment would be a piece of shit. He was doing Ian a favour every time he summoned him to the pool house. He used his knuckle to flush the toilet and tried to figure out the best way to manoeuvre out of the bathroom untouched.

Mickey bit his inner cheek as he listened to Sal unzip and relieve himself, cringing a little as the man obnoxiously passed gas and muttered unintelligibly to himself. He heard the toilet flush, and between holding his breath and his nerves fraying under the tension, Mickey could feel himself vibrating. He waited in exasperation for his boss to simply leave, but the man was making a slow and deliberate effort to back out of the bathroom and Mickey was close to losing it. Sal brushed the curtain hard, coming millimetres from coming in contact with Mickey and the mobster swore at his clumsiness while Mickey’s heart stopped. After what felt like an eternity, Mickey heard the bathroom door open and Sal finally exit.

* * *

Sal wiped his hands on his coat as he came out of the bathroom and looked up to see Ian and Jaime staring at him as if he had emerged from another dimension. “What? I washed my hands,” he said defensively. Those pipes were probably the worst harbingers of germs. His cashmere coat was definitely the cleaner alternative. He walked over to Ian and grabbed his chin, “I’ll see you in a day or two, alright?” he said softly and pulled Ian in for a kiss.

Ian looked over Sal’s shoulder to the bathroom door while the man kissed him. He wondered if Mickey was still alive in there. He also wondered, somewhat perversely, just how much of Mickey Sal was tasting on his lips right now. He gave Sal a small smile when the man pulled back and Sal affectionately rubbed his thumb along Ian’s jaw line.

“I’ll see you, kid,” Sal said.

Ian watched breathlessly as the two men exited the apartment. Ian paused for a second before he ran to the door and quickly locked and latched it before deflating in a dramatic heap. He then ran to the window and watched unblinking until Sal and Jaime got into the car and finally drove away. Even then, he didn’t trust himself to move, and stood staring out the window for a few minutes more until he was fairly certain they wouldn’t suddenly double back. He finally went to the bathroom, half wondering if Mickey had flushed himself down the toilet, and knocked on the door.

“Mick, they’re gone,” his voice came out in a croak. About a minute later, the door slowly opened and Mickey came out, still clutching his clothes against his chest. They stared at each other wordlessly until Mickey finally spoke.

“Holy shit,” Mickey whispered and Ian nodded slowly in agreement before he cracked—snickering as the adrenaline from the terror and tension coursed through his veins. Soon, Ian was full on laughing and Mickey stared at him incredulously until his own lips began twitching and before long, he was howling right along with Ian.

“Oh god,” Ian said as he came down and rubbed his hands over his face in disbelief, “that was so fucking close. He came this close…we came this close.”

“Yeah” Mickey said, panting from the exertion and realization. He stared at Ian wide-eyed, “yeah.”

Ian stared back and when Mickey finally released his viselike grip on his clothes and came towards him, Ian already had the same idea. They lunged for each other and met in a clash of tongues and teeth, and hands fisting desperately into each other’s hair. Ian let go of Mickey’s hair long enough to grab the back of his thighs and tackle him to the floor. They crashed to earth with a shared grunt and spent the rest of the afternoon getting rid of the residual nervous energy.

* * *

On the morning of the second and last of his stolen days, Mickey awoke to the smell of bacon and to the sight of pills—lots of pills—prescribed ones from the look of them. He rubbed his eyes and curiously reached for one of the bottles. From what he could see, they were all prescribed to Ian and Mickey briefly wondered if Ian had a small prescription pill racket the way Iggy did, but he’d never heard of anyone getting high off lithium.

“You’re awake,” Ian said when Mickey sat up in bed, and he could already hear the nerves in Ian’s voice. Ian turned the stove off and set the last batch of bacon to drain. He quickly covered up the massive breakfast he’d made as he anxiously waited for Mickey to wake up, and went to sit on the bed.

“What’s all this?” Mickey asked as he examined another bottle.

“They’re, uh, they’re my medications for my, um, my bipolar disorder,” Ian cleared his throat and fidgeted when Mickey looked up at him. “Those are some of the vitamins you saw me taking. I used to pour them into some empty supplement bottles I had, but I figure it’s time I stopped doing that.”

“Bipolar?” Mickey asked slowly, sussing the word out, “bipolar? Is that like that manic-depressive shit?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s exactly that, only they don’t call it that anymore,” Ian replied, “it’s bipolar now.”

Mickey frowned at Ian then back down at the pills, trying to process this new information. “What does that mean exactly?”

“Uh, like before I started taking my meds properly, I’d have some pretty extreme mood swings. I’d just get really high sometimes, do some truly crazy shit, or I’d get pretty depressed the other times, might not get out of bed for weeks,” Ian said. He kept his eyes trained on his hands in his lap, but could still see Mickey’s eyes widen in alarm and that triggered Ian’s torrent. Once the babble started, it was impossible to stop. “I should have told you earlier, but it’s just—it’s a pretty major thing to lay on somebody and it never felt like the right time to do it and I didn’t want you to freak out or think that I was damaged goods or something. I’m even now…these last couple years, I’ve been really good. I’ve been taking my meds and going to therapy and I’ve been holding it together really well. It’s not—” Ian faltered briefly, “you don’t have to worry about me going nuts or anything.”

Mickey didn’t say anything. He slowly rolled the bottle of pills in his hands as he took his time unpacking and examining each piece of the information dump. Of all the things he had been imagining, this hadn’t been anywhere on the list. The closest he’d come to meeting anyone who had issues like that had been in jail, and most of them had been in the middle of bouncing off the concrete walls or walking around like zombies.

“I’m even,” Ian said, the desperation growing in his voice as Mickey’s silence persisted, “it’s under control. I mean, I’m not going to lie, I still have off days, you know? Even on the meds I can have days when I’m a little too hyper or I’m dragging a bit, and there are some side effects,” Ian said as his fingernails dug  into his thigh, “my concentration is kinda fucked sometimes and things can get a little random, but you’ve already been through all of that with me without even knowing. I mean this is me, this is-this is how I really am now. I just wanted to be honest with you; I’m not going to suddenly go Jekyll and Hyde or anything.”

“How long will you have to deal with this?” Mickey asked, finally breaking his silence.

To Ian, it was possibly the worst first question Mickey could toss at him, because there was no way to present the answer in a way that didn’t sound incredibly fatalistic. “My doctor says I probably won’t have to deal with it as aggressively after about thirty, forty years,” Ian said mutedly. The silence that fell next was crushing. Ian could hear the faint rattle of the pills as Mickey shifted and chanced glancing at his boyfriend to see him wipe a hand over his face and stare unseeingly out the window, clearly overwhelmed. Ian chewed his lower lip and stared back down at his hands and felt that burning sting behind his eyes. “I should have told you earlier.”

“Are there things I’d have to do?” Mickey asked, “like when you’re having those off days?”

Ian looked at Mickey for a moment, trying to gauge what he was thinking. “I don’t know. I’ve never really had anyone there like that to notice when I’m having those days. I guess we’d just go with it. But, um, if the off days go on too long, then it maybe means it’s time for me to get my meds adjusted. It’s kind of a trial and error thing.”

“Trial and error?” Mickey echoed, “why is it trial and error? They don’t know the right way to treat this shit? You’re not a fucking lab rat!”

“It’s just how it is,” Ian said quietly, “can’t be helped—any of it. It’s just the way it is.”

Mickey stared at the pills in his hand for a while longer and then carefully put them back on the nightstand. “Yeah, okay,” Mickey said after a moment and ran his fingers through his messy hair. Now he would have to add bipolar disorder to the top of the list of things he had to research, but for now, he was starving. “What did you make for breakfast?”

Ian could only stare. “‘Yeah, okay?’ You’re really going to ‘yeah, okay’ this?” Ian said shakily, nodding to his pills, “are you fucking serious right now?”

Mickey looked at the pills then back at Ian, “what do you want me to say? It’s heavy but we’ll deal, right? Besides, after dealing with Sal’s prescriptions and his mood swings, I think I can get a handle on your shit real quick,” Mickey said, rubbing his hand in his hair before he smiled at Ian, “Bipolar or whatever, you’re still the most stable fucker in my life right now. So if it gets a little dicey, I can handle it.”

Ian nodded wordlessly and turned back to stare down at his hands again. It wasn’t until Mickey grabbed him by the neck and pulled him down into the bed, that Ian realized he had started to crumple. He stared at the ceiling and tried to steady his breathing to calm down while Mickey lay close to him and stroked his face. He closed his eyes and began to relax as Mickey’s thumb swiped soothingly across his cheek.

“What’s going on?” Mickey asked.

“I’ve wanted to tell you for a while,” Ian said after a while, “but I was so fucking scared you’d freak out about it. It hasn’t always gone so well when I had to tell people. So I’ve been kind of stressed out about hiding it and how you’d react, but you said ‘yeah, okay.’” Ian said and laughed at the wonder of it all.

Mickey sighed. “Alright look, I’m not gonna tell you that this isn’t freaking me out a little. It’s pretty fucking major, but then I also spent the last few weeks wondering if you had secret cancer or something like that,” Mickey shrugged when Ian looked at him askance, “Carlisi dying had me a little spooked. He used to chew pills like candy too before he went down for the count. But come on, it’s you,” Mickey told him, “doesn’t really matter to me what you’ve got going on, I’ll always say ‘yeah, okay.’”

Ian snorted softly and wriggled closer, “you’re such a dumbass,” he sniffed at Mickey.

“Yeah well, what I really am is starving. That shit must be ice cold by now. Are you feeding me or what?”

“Jesus, okay,” Ian huffed and rolled off the bed to reheat their breakfast.

* * *

A young woman got on the elevator with her laundry cart at the seventh floor and regarded Mickey closely as she entered. She was a little surprised to see him so dressed down. She usually only saw him in two modes: looking sharp and pristine in his suits as he headed up in the elevator, and looking rumpled but sated as he made his way back down. He was smiling a little to himself and looked as if he was a million miles away, but if she had to guess, his mind was probably just back on the eighth floor. The college student pushed back her massive headphones and swept a hand through her messy hair.

“So you’re one of the guys freaking out my grandma,” she said.

“Huh?”

“You and the redhead. Bubbe thinks you guys are in some sort of fight club.”

Mickey’s lips twitched, “a fight club, really?”

The girl shrugged and grinned, “she just saw the movie and she’s freaking out. I guess you guys give her Brad Pitt/Edward Norton vibes, but ‘oy gevalt! It’s just the worst thing!’ I told her you guys are probably just fucking or whatever, but I don’t think that’s terrifying enough for her and her rampant paranoia.”

“Ah, okay…”

“So which is it?” the young woman asked pointedly, “are you in a fight club or are you just fucking?” she said while staring pointedly at the redness around Mickey’s neck. She had to admit, it could easily go either way.

“Are those my only two options?” Mickey said wryly and the girl shrugged.

“Pretty much.”

The elevator doors finally opened on the first floor and Mickey simply clicked his tongue before he stepped off. “Can’t talk about it.”

The girl laughed and slipped her headphones back on as she headed to the laundry in the basement. She should have guessed. After all, the first rule of Fight Club is: you do not talk about Fight Club.

* * *

Jaime was at the corner waiting to pick up his brother and glared half-heartedly at Mickey when he finally climbed in. Mickey caught the look and rolled his eyes.

“Don’t look at me like I made a fucked up decision. He never comes there—ever! I don’t know what the fuck possessed him to now.”

“Well for what it’s worth, I don’t think he’ll be returning any time soon,” Jaime admitted, “he was a little antsy about seeing his relatives, I think. I guess he figured Gallagher could settle him down a bit. The power this ginger dick has over the two of you, I’ll never understand.”

Mickey snorted softly, “yeah, wish I could explain it to you, but I can’t.”

Jaime only grunted as he piloted the car back to the North side. He soon gave Mickey a sidelong glance. “So…shit yourself?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, holy shit, if I hadn’t been giving my sphincter muscles Olympic level training all these years…”

Jaime burst out laughing and Mickey immediately joined him. They spent much of the journey comparing notes, trying to determine just who had been closer to hearing the brown note.

* * *

“I begged off for today, but I know Sal’s going to want to see me tomorrow and I am just not ready,” Ian moaned to Alex when they met after class to head to work together.

“Still having difficulties?”

“It is the fucking worst. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. Nothing like this has happened to me since I first started taking my meds. Plus, I pretty much stayed hard for the entirety of the past two days, so something is fucked up somewhere!”

“Nothing is wrong with you, idiot,” Alex laughed, “I know a lot of your identity and self-esteem are tied up in your sexuality and sexual prowess, but this is not a dysfunction and you’ll feel better if you stopped viewing it that way.”

“If it’s not a dysfunction, then what the fuck’s going on?!”

Alex looked at her friend askance, “I would think it’s kinda obvious. The days of auto-erecting to bang dudes for whom you have little or no physical attraction are over, babe. For my money, your dick has finally caught up with the rest of you and is now officially monogamous.”

Ian groaned aloud to the heavens. “It was the fucking planetarium, I know that’s it. Fucking supernovas and Big Bangs; I’m starting to think he did this on purpose in some kind of Machiavellian dick sabotage!”

“‘Dick Sabotage’ is going to be the name of my misandrist, heavy metal garage band. Or maybe it should be my superhero name. You could be my sidekick, ‘Cock Blocker.’”

Ian snorted derisively and got his card ready for the approaching bus.

“Since it seems like Sal gets off on you being mean to him, have you considered being really nice instead? Alex suggested. “Maybe that would put him off.”

“You don’t think I tried that? It just agitates my gag reflex.”

“You still have your gag reflex?” Alex raised her eyebrows in comical surprise as they boarded the bus.

Ian grinned, “believe me, I’m just as surprised as you are. I thought Roger Spikey destroyed that shit.”

* * *

They were both on cashiering duty and Ian waited until there was a lull in the stream of customers to fill Alex in on the rest of his news.

“So I came clean to Mickey about being bipolar,” he said, keeping his voice as low as possible.

Alex was thrown for a loop. “You did?!” she exclaimed. She knew how fiercely guarded Ian was about his condition and how he much he still struggled with the guilt and shame over the consequences. “Well, uh, how did he react?”

“He didn’t run screaming for the hills which was already way more than I was hoping for,” Ian said, his smile luminous, “but he was actually pretty great. He was amazing actually. We spent the whole day talking about it after he’d stopped whining about breakfast. I answered all his questions as best as I could and I pretty much told him everything. At some points I kept thinking he’d bolt, but he never did.”

“Wow,” Alex muttered, still stunned by the development, “I guess I never realized just how far along you were with trusting him like that.”

“Yeah well, I felt it was time. He knew something was up and I was getting really paranoid about not keeping my pills in the correct bottles. Besides, I figured I’d take a shot on trusting him. He did say he loves me.”

Alex was flat-out gaping at Ian. If she had thought his smile couldn’t get any bigger or brighter, she would have been mistaken. “He told you he loved you? Just out of the blue?”

“I said it first,” Ian confessed, “apparently I’d been saying it for a while now. When I did it on purpose though, he didn’t say anything at first. He told me he thought it was obvious, like sure. The whole thing was a fucking mess, but it was amazing.”

Alex shook her head slowly. “So naturally, you’re even more invested than ever. Jesus, Ian.”

Ian’s brow knotted, confused by her strange reaction. “What?”

“I just—” Alex sighed and tried to arrange her thoughts. “You just keep doing the most and digging yourself deeper and deeper into this! You know I support you and I want you to be happy, but this! Every day I keep hoping that maybe this will be the day you realize the totality of your situation and maybe try and take a step back and shield yourself a little, maybe create a little distance. Jesus, why would you tell him you love him?!”

“Because I do?” Ian said slowly, “what’s the problem if he loves me back?!” His spine straightened as Alex groaned in exasperation.

“It’s just a word, Ian, and not everyone holds it in the regard you do. What are the odds he just said it to avoid problems and make his life a little easier?”

“Oh wow,” Ian huffed softly.

“I’m not trying to be hurtful, but Jesus, Ian, I just want you to take a step back and see the forest for the trees a little. I don’t doubt Mickey cares about you, but I’m scared you’re investing way too much and the returns simply won’t be there. Of course he’s okay with the fact that you’re bipolar, he probably won’t be around long enough to ever see it surface. Yes, he’ll say he loves you because you can tie his dick in knots and you’d be pissed off and distant if he left you hanging,” she said, “he’s told you himself that the moment there’s a way to get you out, it’s going to be sayonara Salvatore _and_ Mickey, and yet there’s this cognitive dissonance that persists where you just pretend as if you haven’t heard or processed any of that and it’s bordering on delusional. And now you’re going to commit yourself even further just because he parroted some emotional bullshit back to you and love and feelings, really?  I just wish you’d wake up!”

A customer appeared and an awkward silence quickly fell. Ian plastered on a plastic smile and welcomed the dubious man into the palpable tension. Ian cashed his goods and thanked him for shopping, and the silence reigned for a while after the man had left.

“I know that you’re cynical about the whole emotional thing because people have been disappointing you your whole life and I get that, people have been disappointing me too. You said you wanted me to have heat and passion, well I don’t think I can have that without the rest of it. I’m really into that ‘emotional bullshit,’ it’s just how I am. You can separate it better than I can, but still maybe one day you’ll meet someone who’ll make you feel all this shit and all you’ll want is for them to acknowledge it and maybe tell you they feel the same way about you. Maybe if and when they do, it really will be all emotional bullshit, but it’ll still make you happy because all you want to do is believe them. Hopefully, if and when it happens, your best friend won’t be there to shit all over it.”

“Ian, I’m just saying—”

“I need to take a break,” Ian said and walked away from the register and from Alex.

* * *

The man grunted painfully when Mickey ran him hard into the bathroom wall. He slid down and sagged to the floor, bloodied and exhausted, and Mickey readjusted his rolled up sleeves. Outside the bathroom door, Iggy stood guard while his brother attempted to collect on the man’s debt.

“Twenty-five large you’re into me,” Mickey informed his debtor, “and you’ve made no attempt at all to square it. Now you have me working you over in a fucking gross bathroom, you think that’s right?” Mickey asked and cocked his head as the man mumbled incoherently. “You know what I think? I don’t think you’re going to pay me and I can’t be doing this with you every week, because quite frankly, I think this is beneath both our dignities,” Mickey said before giving the beaten man a critical look, “well my dignity at least.” He pulled out his gun and unlocked the safety, making the man perk up considerably “so I’m just going to kill you and shift your debt to the next in line—brother, wife, I don’t give a fuck—okay? Okay,” Mickey said and raised his weapon. The sound of Mickey’s phone going off took them both by surprise and Mickey gave the man an apologetic shrug. “Give me a minute, just going to take this real quick. Don’t go anywhere,” he said and drifted to the opposite end of the bathroom near the door, giving the man no hopes for escape. “Yeah?”

“Hey,” Ian said, “can you talk?”

“Not a good time.”

“Right, sorry,” Ian said and abruptly hung up.

Mickey took two steps back towards his debtor before he paused and whipped out his phone again, “what?” he asked when Ian answered.

“You said you were busy.”

“What did I say about distracting me? You sound weird, I don’t know why you sound weird, and that shit is distracting. So what’s going on? Are you drunk?”

“No—I had a few beers.”

“I think it’s time you accepted that you might be a little more of a lightweight now than before you started knocking back whole pharmacy shelves.”

Ian hesitated briefly before he spoke. “You were asking me all those questions about me being sick and about things you might need to do…it sort of sounded like you were trying to visualize our future. But then, you also keep saying that when things end with Sal, I’m supposed to leave and forget him and you, so I feel like the messages are conflicting and I’m a little confused,” Ian said thickly, “so what’s the plan then? When Sal’s no longer an issue, would you really just end things like that?”

This was not a conversation for which Mickey was in any way, shape or form prepared. He tapped his gun against his thigh and cast a quelling eye at the battered man stirring in the corner. He sighed as he turned Ian’s question over in his head. “I can’t talk about this right now. Can this wait until we’re face to face?” Mickey hung up after Ian relented with a sigh and returned to finish his task.

“I can get the money!” the man panted desperately.

“How?” Mickey asked.

“C-College fund. I can…I can get it.”

Mickey shook his head and holstered his weapon. “Have it by tomorrow and look into therapy or something, because you’re a gambling addict and you absolutely suck at it.”

* * *

Mickey didn’t make it back to the apartment to talk, and Ian spent the following day replaying Alex’s words in his head even while he avoided her and her attempts to contact him. When Iggy texted him to meet at the main gate, Ian was glad for it. That is until he got to the pool house to find that Mickey wasn’t there, while Sal was very much present. It was tantamount to looking at a pill he knew he was going to choke on but had to down anyway. Ian also knew that he was in no better shape to engage Sal sexually, which meant the man would be that much closer to knowing something was wrong. Despite Ian’s trepidation, Sal actually managed to pleasantly surprise him.

“Mickey has ordered me down to the garage to straighten up some paperwork in case any unwelcome visitors drop in,” Sal said with a sigh of longsuffering, “you want to come with me, take a look at the old place and see some impressive toys of the idle rich?” Sal smiled indulgently when Ian lit up. At that moment, nothing could have made Ian happier. _“Boys and cars,”_ Sal thought to himself. Ian might be just as bad as Mickey.

* * *

The garage was massive–a sprawling, open structure crawling with activity. Ian followed Sal and Iggy as they entered the first section, where several classic cars sat in various states of undress, waiting for attention. It was hard to estimate how large the garage was, as the further in he went, the more sections and space seemed to open up. He asked Sal if it was okay to look around and the man waved him off, eager to get the tedium of paperwork over with as quickly as possible. When Sal disappeared into a back office, Iggy pointed him towards one of the far sections, and after a bit of walking, he spotted a familiar pair of legs sticking out from under an enormous, cherry-red car. Apparently Mickey Milkovich could whistle while he worked. Ian kicked the sole of one of Mickey’s booted feet and grinned at the angry sputtering.

“What the fu—oh,” Mickey’s eyes widened as he slid out from under the vehicle and sat up on the creeper. He was greasy and smudged to high heaven and Ian thought it was brilliant. “What are you doing here?”

“Came with Sal; he figured I’d want to see some cars,” Ian said before glancing around and then asking quietly, “so what happened last night?”

“Didn’t get in until four. You had school and I had a full day here, so decided to crash instead,” Mickey explained and then kicked at Ian’s feet, “can you ditch him? Get Sal to leave you and I’ll give you a personal tour after we lock up. Just a couple more hours.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

By the time Sal found him wandering the garage, Ian had fallen significantly under the weather. Ian chose the exact moment the older man opened his mouth to say “let’s go,” to unleash a foghorn of a sneeze before sniffling daintily afterwards. Sal almost had a heart attack.

“What the hell was that?!”

“It was just a sneeze, will you relax?” Ian laughed, “ugh, I’m probably getting a mild cold.”

At his age, and in his estimation, Sal didn’t believe in such a thing as a “mild” cold and started backing away as discreetly as he could. When Ian made what sounded suspiciously like a phlegm-laden snort, Sal was as done as one could be. “Maybe you should go home and get some rest. The weather’s starting to change, it’s probably messing with you.”

“Aw, but I haven’t even gotten a good look around yet,” Ian pouted.

“It’s okay,” Iggy chimed in, “you can hang for a bit and check things out. I’ll come back for you after I take Sal home. That okay, boss?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sal said, already a good twenty feet away and moving rather rapidly. “Call me when you get home!”

Iggy looked at Ian and grinned, “I won’t be coming back for ya,” he said and winked before jogging after Sal.

The car had only just driven off when Mickey came up next to Ian. “Ditched him, huh?”

Ian regarded Mickey closely, “you should take a break,” he told Mickey, “you look a little tired.”

Mickey bit back a smile and focused on wiping his hands with a rag, “it’s only a couple more hours.”

“Still, you know, for your health…”

* * *

The moment Mickey closed the door to the back office, Ian was on him, turned on by the mess and motor oil and the blue-collared normalcy of it all. He felt like devouring Mickey and he did his best to do just that, pressing against him eagerly as he bit at Mickey’s lips. Mickey was just as eager, but he kept his hands firmly at his side, even as he pressed back. Ian caught on quickly.

“Why aren’t you touching me?” he asked and laughed when Mickey raised his hands and showed him his blackened palms. “I don’t care.”

“How’s it going to look if we’re in here then someone sees you covered in schmutz?” Mickey pointed out.

Once again Ian was reminded that the guy he wanted to spend his life with was still deep in the closet. He could almost hear another bullet point in Alex’s argument forming and he stubbornly pushed the thought away. “When I don’t want you touching me, I’ll tie your hands to something. If you’re so worried about people seeing something, get creative about where you put your hands then.”

Mickey glanced around hesitantly, as if afraid that one of the other mechanics would pop out of nowhere. He looked up at Ian as he slowly and tentatively slipped his hands under Ian’s shirt and pressed his fingers into Ian’s skin. His hands roved freely over Ian’s back as they kissed, now as eager to leave his marks as Ian was to receive them. But when Ian grabbed his ass and ground against him so hard he saw stars, he quickly shut everything down.

“Hey, hey, this is supposed to be a ten minute break and I still have a couple of hours to work. You think I’m going to be out there working on some old fart’s car while I have your jizz leaking out of my ass?!”

“God, you should write poetry.”

“Get the fuck off me,” Mickey sighed, “do some homework or something. Everybody will clear off soon enough.”

Not fast enough in Ian’s estimation. It was another three hours before Mickey stuck his head back inside the office. He had cleaned up, much to Ian’s fleeting disappointment.

“Ready for your tour?”

* * *

It was nothing short of amazing to see the way Mickey lit up as he talked about all the cars and the business. He spoke freely and easily as he pulled Ian along, pointing out various projects and explaining the various challenges. “They’re three things I’m working on right now,” Mickey said as he led Ian back to the cherry-red car under which Ian had found him. “This is a 1950 Studebaker Commander. It’s been sitting on its ass for a while and the chassis got rusted, but look at it.”

“It’s fucking huge,” Ian said appreciatively. He was impressed with the car, but was more charmed by Mickey’s boundless enthusiasm for it.

“Yeah,” Mickey grinned and patted the hood affectionately, “subtlety and minimalism weren’t really big buzzwords back then. The owner went to a storage auction, paid like six grand blind for the container, opened it up and found this—lucky fuck. Wants to flip it at one of those fancy, classic car auctions. He’s going to make a fucking mint.” Mickey led him to another section and pulled the sheet off a black sports car. “This is a 1968 Ferrari GTC –this one’s pretty much done—heading out in a couple of days. Lady tracked it down and is getting it restored for her husband. Apparently this is the car they fell in love in or had a kid in or some shit like that.”

“Aw.”

“Sap.”

“Says the guy who rolls up on me in his classic black Mustang just because,” Ian teased as he helped cover the car again. Mickey didn’t answer, just smiled shyly and ducked his head. He followed Mickey to yet another section of the garage to his third project and apparently the pièce de résistance. When Ian helped Mickey roll back the cover of the car tucked in the corner there was no doubt in Ian’s mind that the car was insanely old. It was a few steps removed from being a horse-drawn carriage.

“1912 Renault Town Car,” Mickey said, beaming at Ian’s gobsmacked reaction to the black and red car. “restoring this is my long term project right now. She’s not in the best shape and needs a shit-ton of work, but does it look familiar? Think movies.”

It took Ian a moment and his eyes narrowed as he tried to place it. When he finally did, his jaw dropped. “Is this the car from the Titanic?!”

“Same make and model, not the same car; just pointing that out. I haven’t gotten her full story yet, but I will and it’s gotta be a doozy.”

“Oh my god,” Ian breathed as he circled the car, thrilling Mickey to no end. “Holy shit, you work in Wonderland.”

“I know right?” Mickey sighed contentedly as he looked around the garage. He looked at Ian suggestively, “so pick one.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me,” Mickey said.

Ian eyed the Renault before looking at Mickey questioningly, “why?”

“You know why.”

Ian chewed his lower lip and stepped into the clearing. In the next room over was the Ferrari, and beyond that was the Studebaker. In the end, it wasn’t that hard a choice. Ian looked at the Renault then to Mickey, then back to the Renault again.

Mickey didn’t hold back his knowing smile. “Of fucking course,” he said as he unzipped his coveralls. “No rough stuff; she’s fragile.”

* * *

True to form, the windows fogged up quickly. Mickey tried to split his attention among the man thrusting away on top of him, listening to any sounds of distress from the antique car and watching the condensation form on the windows. Ultimately, he had given up on the last two. Fortunately, when Ian broke their kiss to suck on his neck, Mickey noticed that the windows had fogged up perfectly. Not missing a beat, he slapped his hand against the back window and let his hand slide down dramatically.

Ian paused when he heard the slap and squeak against the window, and looked up to see Mickey’s handprint framed in the mist. He then looked down at Mickey whose expression dared him to say something. So of course he immediately burst out laughing, for he was an ass with little regard for his personal welfare. “Why are you such a dork?!”

“Shut up, you thought the exact same thing when you saw this car!”

“I can’t fucking deal with you, Jesus, Mickey!”

“Shut up, you know you want to do it too!”

Ian looked up at Mickey’s handprint and his lips twitched again. Suddenly inspired, he slapped his hand next to Mickey’s impression and mirrored the slide. He grinned down at Mickey triumphantly, “good things your hands are so comically tiny; plenty of space for me to—ack!”

“How small are my hands now, fucker?!” Mickey cried after grabbing Ian into a headlock.

Ian surrendered immediately just so they could get back to gently rocking the Renault.

* * *

“We should do it in the Studebaker next,” Ian suggested as they sat in the Renault, trying to cool down and catch their breath.

“I said one,” Mickey reminded him.

“Yeah, but the Studebaker though. I mean its name is practically a call to arms to fuck in it. ‘Stud,’ ‘baker,’” Ian said, “‘…tude.”

“God, why haven’t I killed you yet?” Mickey laughed.

“Don’t know. The night’s still young.” The silence grew as their hearts slowed and the air around them shifted. Ian looked out the window at the expensive cars littering the space outside—each one with so much potential, everyone a chance to escape. Instead they sat stalled for a moment in an uncertain future. “Would you really let me go?”

“I’d try,” Mickey said.

“You’d fail.”

“Probably…most likely,” Mickey sighed, “I can’t have you staying in this shit just for me, Ian. I couldn’t live with that if it sucked you in.”

“So we’ll leave it then, when we can.”

“I can’t leave,” Mickey said with such grim finality that Ian knew better than to challenge it at that moment. He’d change Mickey’s mind eventually. Somehow he would get Mickey to that point of possibility.

“So we meet outside it then.”

“You think that could work? It gets harder to change from one thing to another and keep them cleanly separate. It’s like osmosis; things just bleed across the line until it’s all the same,” Mickey shook his head.

“Sometimes you and Sal talk like you’re both from the Twilight Zone,” Ian laughed shortly. “Did you mean it when you said you loved me? You weren’t just trying to get me off your ass?”

“Why would I ever want you off my ass?” Mickey grinned impishly before he sobered. “I meant what I said—I don’t say shit I don’t mean, unless I’m threatening people, then it’s an intimidation thing. Don’t tell anybody.”

“Well then you’re stuck,” Ian said, “this is us, stuck on each other, so we’ll have to figure it out whenever shit starts going down.”

“You hate feeling stuck,” Mickey reminded him.

“Not like this; not when it’s you,” Ian said and that was that, “can we go check out the Studebaker now?”

Mickey snorted but obediently and carefully followed Ian out of the Renault. He would have to figure it out as he went along. He was in love with a force of nature, and he’d either be swept up and transported, or torn to pieces.

* * *

“Special delivery,” Dre sang out as he approached the park bench where Alex sat waiting by the edge of the pond. “Damn girl, when I told you not to come back into the hood and to choose another spot, I was expecting you to a find a locale that was a little less murder-y. This place looks like something out of _Dateline_.”

“It’s pretty safe and we’re not alone. Make the right series of noises and gay guys will just pop out like a Disney woodland creature.”

“Oh, it’s like that?” Dre said as he viewed the surroundings with a new eye. He handed over the bag to Alex and accepted her cash. He watched with interest as she went about awkwardly rolling her joint. “Single smoker cuts a lonely figure by the water’s edge. How many _Law and Order_ episodes have started this way?”

“Smoking partner’s mad at me; I talked shit about his boyfriend, so I’m living la vida solo right now.”

“Ah…you want me to do that for you?” Dre asked, offering to roll her joints. “No extra charge.”

Alex nodded—feeling too jittery to do a decent job—and watched in amazement as Dre expertly rolled her joints at lightning speed, periodically looking around to make sure no one was sneaking up on them.

“Did you know Mickey told Ian he loved him?” she asked suddenly.

Dre did a double take. “Mickey? Mickey Milkovich?” he said with disbelief, “are you sure you have the right guy? Dude’s around yea high, got blue eyes, walks like he’s got ten pound balls between his legs; that Mickey?”

“I take it you’re surprised.”

Dre looked beside himself with delight. “Shit, well what do you know, fucker took an arrow to the knee,” Dre threw his head back and laughed. “Not even six months ago I told him he was gonna slip and get caught but he didn’t believe me. I think he performed the full body equivalent of a ‘bah, humbug.’ Catch him next week writing sonnets and shit.”

“I’ve been telling Ian that I don’t think a serious relationship with Mickey is a good idea,” Alex confessed quietly.

“Why’s that?”

“Because,” Alex sighed, flustered “Ian’s been struggling for so long to find a way out of the Southside, and to escape all that shit and all those issues of not feeling special or worthy.”

“I’m seeing your point. Being in love has never made anyone feel special or worthwhile,” Dre muttered with a lift of his brow.

“God, that’s not it. He’s finally figuring things out, you know, he’s moving forward and he’s creating that path he’s been looking for and I’m just scared he’s going to get caught up in Mickey’s life and completely forget himself and everything he’s dreamed about for something that’s ultimately unsustainable.”

“Man, I should have brought you some stronger weed,” Dre observed with a cocked eyebrow. “Look, I understand your concern. He’s your boy and you care deeply, but he’s a man that rolled up into my hood looking like he wanted to lay me out. If you’re going to stress over a wild dude like that, you’re going to be stressed for the rest of your stress-abbreviated life. That’s his mama’s job.”

“Yeah, well she doesn’t want it.”

“Still doesn’t make it yours,” Dre replied, “He’s a grown man, he’s gonna do whatever he feels he needs to do. Plus he’s in love. You could be right as hell, you still can’t try and counsel people in the throes of a hot romance. Can’t nobody tell them nothing right now.”

Alex took a drag off her joint. “I just can’t believe he’s fallen this hard. This time last year, I was trying so hard to get him to loosen up and take a chance to just date someone he found attractive, now it’s planetariums and taking on mob bosses for love, and it’s confessions in the dark and I’m just here, trying to wrap my mind around it all.”

“Well it’s the same thing with Mickey too. It’s always the staunchest unbelievers who have the wildest conversions,” Dre laughed, “and then we who have been in the trenches for so long, fighting that good fight, spreading that gospel, we’re left trying to play catch up. WHY WON’T YOU SEND ME SOMEBODY, JESUS?!” Dre yelled suddenly into the night air only for guy to randomly pop out from behind a tree, much to Dre’s astonishment. “Oh no, no, my dude, I was just making a dramatic point, sorry about that! Or you know, maybe later.”

Alex choked and her laughter came out in puffs of smoke. “I told you.”

Dre grinned broadly at her, “yeah, I can see you weren’t exaggerating,” he chuckled and leaned back. “You gotta let them have it; you gotta let them try at least. It might all fall to shit tomorrow but fuck, it’s love, you gotta let them try. Besides, you say Ian’s been doing well and making all this progress, well maybe Mickey’s a part of that. Maybe he’s part of the step forward rather than being a regression.”

“And if he isn’t and it all falls apart?”

“Then fuck, let it. You’ll help put him back together as best you can and get him ready to try again, if you’re willing. But it’s his life and you gotta let him have it. In the mean time, do you: relax, let it go, and smoke a lot of ganja.”

At a loss, Alex sighed and took another deep drag of her joint and tried doing just that.


	22. The Story of a Girl

Mickey Milkovich looked quite different when he was awake. Up until that moment, Alex had only seen him in the pictures on Ian’s phone—just stolen snaps of her friend’s sleeping boyfriend. In those pictures, Mickey had looked so peaceful, innocent even, and Alex had struggled to reconcile those pictures to her image of an unrepentant mobster. The man that swaggered into the supermarket now was much closer to the constructed image she kept in her head, though still quite off. He still didn’t look like a gangster; what he looked like was a mechanic, dressed in clean coveralls and workman boots.

She watched with keen interest from the international foods aisle where she was doing inventory. She had been sneaking glances at Ian, who had been steadily ignoring her while he cashed and bagged groceries, and was consequently alerted to Mickey’s arrival by Ian’s head snapping up in surprise. She had to admit, it was certainly a different vibe from when Sal had made his supermarket debut. Where Sal had been awkward and unsure, Mickey swanned in, secure in his magnetism. Where Ian had been self-assured to the point of smugness when Sal showed up, now he simply looked…smitten. Alex didn’t have much experience with a besotted Ian and she had to admit, it was just fascinating to see.

Just as his boss had done, Mickey made eye-contact with Ian before disappearing into an aisle. Ian’s evident anxiety and impatience over Mickey’s disappearance was actually sort of funny. He kept trying to figure out from what point Mickey would re-emerge, as if genuinely concerned that he might never see the man again. Alex made sure to look away before she rolled her eyes. Was everyone in their honeymoon period this patently ridiculous? Despite Ian’s concerns, Mickey eventually reappeared with a hand basket containing sandwiches, chips and drinks.

“You gonna eat all this by yourself?” Ian asked as he swiped the wrapped sandwiches across the sensor.

“I don’t know, am I?” Mickey replied, drawing a coy smile out of Ian. “You look tired; you should take a break.”

“Don’t really feel tired though,” Ian said and held his hand out for Mickey’s cash.

“Still, you should take a break,” Mickey murmured as fingers slid tantalizingly over Ian’s now burning hand, “you know, for your health.” With that, Mickey picked up the bag of goods, shot Ian another inviting smile and exited the supermarket without so much as another backward glance. Ian was off and searching for a supervisor before the automatic doors even had a chance to close.

Alex watched with a pang as Ian left to take his break and find his boyfriend. They always took their breaks together when they had the same shift and now there was not even a nod to say he was taking off for a while. She must have been deeper in the doghouse than she thought. What was worse, as she would find out, was that she wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

“Separate lunch breaks now?” Nate purred, materializing behind her to restock the shelves. “What’s the matter, you two no longer simpatico? He find out your dick is bigger than his?”

“Jesus, fuck off you weeping pus wound,” Alex snapped at him before stalking out of the aisle.

* * *

That evening she sat on her bed staring at her phone in apprehension. Alex knew she need to make the call, but reaching out was always the worst thing for her to do. She picked up the phone, was poised to dial but hesitated, her nerves working on her. She sighed and decided to just rip the Band-Aid off; she didn’t want to delay this any longer. The phone rang three times before a warm voice with a Russian accent picked up.

“Anya?”

The housekeeper gasped, “Miss Alex?! Oh, it’s been so long!”

“Yeah, I know…it’s been kind of crazy,” Alex laughed awkwardly. They spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries and catching up, until Alex finally asked the dreaded question. “Are my parents at home?”

The older woman hesitated briefly, cluing Alex in on the potential difficulties to come. “I’ll get your mother.”

There were a couple nerve-wracking minutes before her mother’s low, smooth voice filled her ears. Her mother sounded so pleasant, but then Joan Alden always sounded pleasant. “Alex?”

“Hi mom.”

“Darling, this is a surprise; you so rarely call. Is everything alright? Whatever’s the matter?”

Alex squirmed uncomfortably, “I’m f—I’m just…how are you and dad?”

“Your father got his clock cleaned by your uncle at golf earlier and now he’s upstairs pouting in his sleep, I imagine. I’m readying the house for spring and you care about none of these things, so how about you skip the faux interest and simply tell me what this rarity of a call portends.”

Alex sighed and stared down at the information packets littering her bed. “I was hoping you and dad could put me back on your insurance.”

There was a small pause and Alex could almost hear the gears spinning in her mother’s head. “Why? I’m sure Preston’s student insurance is more than sufficient for all your needs.”

“No, mom, it really isn’t. Look, there has been a lot of new legislation put in and I’m trying to work it out and it’s confusing as hell, but I think if I’m back on your insurance, I might be able to, um, I could go a lot further in my transition. Insurance companies can’t legally discriminate against Trans—“

“Is this from the Obamacare nonsense?” Joan sighed irritably, “of course, the country’s falling apart and this is what they shove down our throats. Your school insurance is more than sufficient for your needs, Alex. I see no need to have you back on ours.”

“Mom,” Alex sighed and her voice thickened as she felt the angry and frustrated tears fighting to the surface already. Her mother had the amazing power of turning her into a tongue-tied child in no time flat, “I’m just trying to fix what’s wrong. I’m not doing great.”

“Then come home, Alexander. There is nothing really wrong with you, darling,” Joan’s voice softened to a caress, “I’ve told you over and over that you’re perfect. The day you were born, you were the most beautiful baby boy I’d ever seen. This is just—” Joan groped for the word, “—an illness in your head. Take a leave of absence and come home so we can get you the help you need, baby. We’ve found real doctors who can take these thoughts away instead of encouraging them like this quack you’re seeing now. You can’t know how painful it is for me to hear you say you’re anything but perfect—”

“Well this isn’t about how you feel!” Alex snapped, shocking her mother into silence. She immediately backed off and tried to get herself under control. “I don’t know how to explain this to you any more, mom; you might never understand, but I need to do this. This is about me, my body, how I’m feeling and this is a mistake I need to fix or I’ll never feel right.”

Her mother’s silence stretched on for a while, and Alex knew that whatever would come next would probably not be pleasant. “You’ve always been so selfish,” Joan’s voice was cold and remote, and chilled any small hope Alex had left in her. “Do you know how much you upset your father the last time you came here? How much you upset me? What did I do to make you like this? We give you everything.”

“Mommy, I just need you to help me.”

“Alexander, we’ve enabled this nonsense long enough. Our current arrangement stands: we’ll pay your tuition, pay your rent and give you a stipend to cover basic expenses, and nothing more. We can’t control what you choose to do with your education once you’re done, but that we honour that commitment. We will not help you mutilate yourself and if you go through with this…” Joan let the threat hang in the air between them. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” Alex said thickly, “that was all, mother.”

“Goodnight, darling,” Joan said airily, her social graces fully restored, “we’ll speak again soon. I love you, baby.”

Alex listened as the line went dead. She sat frozen with her phone for a moment before she sent it spinning through the air while she screamed in its wake.

* * *

Ian sighed deeply as Mickey rocked on top of him. He ran his hands up Mickey’s thighs to grip his hips to keep him steady as he thrust upwards into the tight heat.  “Mine,” he growled, making Mickey smile, and the man leaned down to kiss Ian softly.

“Fucking bitch thinks she can talk to me however she likes,” Sal grumbled as he barged into the room. Ian jerked, his heart stopping as Sal walked in on them. Mickey sat up, but paid Sal no mind as his eyes fluttered closed as he resumed his grind on top of Ian. “I’m a fucking man, ain’t I?” Sal said aloud to the room and Ian looked frantically from Mickey to Sal with his heart hammering painfully in his chest. Ian was frozen beneath Mickey, completely at sea as to what to do. Sal simply continued his rant and, to Ian’s horror, began shedding his clothes. “Fucking harpy is what she is,” Sal grumbled as he dropped his pants and pulled off his underwear. “Whatever happened to a man being the king of his fucking castle?!”

Ian was terrified and gobsmacked as Sal turned and walked over to the bed. He looked up at a seemingly oblivious Mickey desperately as Sal actually slid into the bed, a vulpine smile spreading across his face.

“Now this is what I need,” Sal sighed, “this does an old man’s heart good. This is beautiful,” Sal murmured as his eyes swept over Mickey’s body and he reached out as if to stroke Mickey’s thigh in the same way Ian had just done.

Ian’s hand struck out with lightning speed, gripping Sal’s wrist and gripping so hard, the old man winced painfully. “Don’t you fucking touch him!”

Sal scowled at Ian for a tense moment before the man started laughing. To Ian’s deepening confusion, Mickey laughed with him. “This fucking guy, huh?” Sal said to Mickey, shaking his head in amusement. He pulled his hand out of Ian’s grip and tutted patiently. “What you getting all worked up for? Mickey’s man enough for both of us, aren’t you, baby?”

“Whatever you say, Sal,” Mickey sighed, his head lolling back in pleasure.

Sal grinned at the sight Mickey made before turning back to see Ian still glaring at him, angry and confused. “Why are you looking at me in that tone of voice? He’s mine, I thought we established this already, I just loaned him to you for a little bit. You’re mine too; well no, you I have on consignment. When I’m done, I’ll send back whatever’s left. But Mick, he’s just flat out mine. Ain’t that right, Mickey?”

“Whatever you say, Sal.”

“Beautiful, my fucking prince,” Sal said as he ran a knuckle up the length of Mickey’s body, making the young man shiver. “So get with the fucking program,” Sal said to Ian, “and this will be a far more pleasant experience for all involved. Mickey, tell him.”

Mickey leaned down again to nibble on Ian’s earlobe and whisper, “just relax and go with it. This can work; it could be fun.”

“Mick, no,” Ian growled back, but Mickey had already pulled away.

“Tell you what,” Sal said lightly, “since you’re already so engaged with the bottom half, how about I take the top half—make a Mickey rotisserie, huh?” Sal laughed obscenely at his own joke and slapped Mickey’s thigh, “come show me what else that mouth is good for.” Sal said and Ian watched in horror as Mickey started to shift, clearly intent on accommodating them both.

**_“God-fucking-dammit!”_ **

Mickey startled awake at the screaming and immediately reached for his gun beneath Ian’s bed to start blasting away at the intruders. There was, however, no zombie invasion or godless murderers. Instead, there was just his spastic boyfriend having some sort of full-body fit at the foot of the bed. Mickey put the gun back and covered his head with a pillow as Ian danced around, gibbering with disgust. One day he was going to end up shooting the red-headed moron and it might not even be an accident.

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re being so blasé about this,” Ian fumed at Mickey when his boyfriend finally deigned to wake up. Ian paced at the foot of the bed, trying to rid himself of the awful remnants of his nightmare.

“I can’t believe you’re freaking out this badly,” Mickey yawned and reached for his pack of cigarettes, “I mean you’re fucking Sal and you’re fucking me. Maybe this is your brain offering you a far more efficient solution to a fucked up love triangle.”

“You’re not funny; you’re never funny. And this isn’t a love triangle; this is a love line, not a triangle. If anything, it’s a sex triangle. It’s not even an equilateral triangle either, more like an isosceles. Definitely an isosceles triangle; like we’re up here and he’s down there in a basement somewhere.”

“I hated geometry or is that trig? Hated that too,” Mickey said blithely, “but yeah, it’s gross, but it’s just your garden variety anxiety dream, right? Don’t dwell on it.”

“Garden variety? I swear to god, you and Alex are the same fucking thing. I’m sorry my dreams aren’t deep enough and cryptic enough for the two of you. I’m a simple man with a simple mind, apparently. We can’t all have dreams that require the freaking Rosetta stone to decipher them.”

Mickey lit up his cigarette and snuggled back against the pillows. “I’m not saying your Psych 101 dream wasn’t fucked up, but it’s not that shocking. Try being a twelve year old kid realizing that he’s gay in one of the most hostile anti-gay establishments there is, while trying to figure out his fucked up relationship with his boss/father-figure/whatever.”

“Slash abuser,” Ian tacked on under his breath.

“For the last time, I wasn’t fucking abused, so please drop that shit. All I’m saying is that was fertile ground for some fucked up Freudian dreamscapes.”

Ian sighed and eyed Mickey suspiciously. “You don’t,” he paused in hesitation, “you’re not conflicted about Sal that way, are you? I mean you don’t have…feelings for him?”

“You mean of the romantic and/or sexual type?” Mickey had to fight back laughter, “nah. Ian, I was a fucked up, confused kid. That all resolved itself pretty damn quick; you only need to see Sal once in his underwear passed out next to a pool of his own vomit for any possible attraction to shrivel up pretty damn quick.”

“Well good,” Ian nodded, “and we’re never having a threesome; not with Sal, not with anybody ever.”

“Hey, whoa, whoa, let’s not be hasty here,” Mickey said mischievously while Ian bristled, “obviously Sal is out of the running, but maybe we can have a discussion or two about who could be at the other end of the Mickey rotisserie. Maybe when you get to know Dre a little better?” He joked, but then it took one look at Ian’s face for Mickey to realize that he had taken the joke a step or two too far. “Shit, Ian, it was a joke,” Mickey said quickly and stubbed out his cigarette so he could crawl over to Ian, who was still standing at the foot of the bed. When Mickey reached for him, Ian shrugged him off, but Mickey grabbed him, hugged him close and buried his face in Ian’s neck. “It was a dumb joke,” Mickey murmured against Ian’s throat as he knelt in bed and tried to cajole his boyfriend back to a better mood. “Come on, don’t be mad,” Mickey said as he kissed along Ian’s tense jaw, “Ian, you know I was just kidding.”

“You’re not funny,” Ian groused quietly, but tilted his neck a bit so Mickey could suck beneath his ear.

Mickey pulled back to look him in the eyes, “I’m a little funny,” he said and slowly slipped his hand into Ian’s boxers to stroke him. “I’m sorry, alright? I was fucking with you. Why would I need a threesome when you’re already packing enough for two?” Mickey wiggled his eyebrows and squeezed Ian a little tighter.

Ian rolled his eyes but was clearly relenting. “I don’t like to share,” he murmured and Mickey grunted his agreement while he kissed Ian’s earlobe. “No threesomes, not even in your head,” he ordered and again Mickey grunted his compliance. “And don’t go along with weird shit in my dreams.”

Now that gave Mickey pause. He pulled back to look at Ian askance. “How the fuck am I supposed to control how I act in your dreams?!”

“I don’t know, figure it out.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re nuttier than a fucking fruitcake,” Mickey said and Ian laughed out loud despite himself. Why it didn’t raise his hackles when Mickey teased him like that now was hard to fathom. Mickey returned his attention to Ian’s neck and murmured, “thank god for your superior hot to crazy ratio.”

Ian snorted and his eyes drifted over to his clock. “By the time you finish sucking my dick, I’m going to be running a little late. You’re going to have to take me to work.”

“Who said anything about sucking your dick? Plus, that kind of sounds like the whole running late thing is completely avoidable,” Mickey pointed out.

Ian stared down at his boxers that still had Mickey’s hand stuck down them. “It really isn’t.”

Mickey grinned and accepted his penance without complaint. “Fine, I’ll suck it in the shower; maybe that will save you a few minutes.”

* * *

Alex had been standing at the bus stop for fifteen minutes before it occurred to her that it might be in vain. She and Ian always met up for the early shifts and walked in together, but since he wasn’t speaking to her, she doubted he was going to show up sooner than he had to just to give her the cold shoulder. She decided to wait on the next bus, for nothing else but the audacity of hope, but Ian wasn’t on that one either. She could swear she saw the now familiar black low rider coming over the horizon filled with annoying guys to give her a hard time. That was the last push she needed and she turned to cross the parking lot to the supermarket.

She was halfway there when she heard a voice that made her heart sink into her shoes. Ernesto was coming in for the start of his shift as well and quickly sidled up next to her. She wasn’t anywhere close to being in the mindset to deal with him or any of the Asshole Patrol. She was immediately reminded of one major benefit of an Ian escort—he put the fear of God into them and they tended to give her a much wider berth when he was around. At least Ernesto seemed to be on his own; more than one of them would probably send her into hysterics.

“Hey girlie,” he said with a laugh, clearly cracking himself up with his rapier-like wit. “How’s it going?”

She didn’t bother answering, choosing to hug herself a little tighter, walk a little faster and block him out as best as she could. He tried engaging her again and whether he was being taunting or friendly, Alex honestly couldn’t say. She had grown adept to blocking out verbal harassment and Ernesto faded into little more than a buzzing noise at her ear. Unfortunately, the continued slight had only being riling him up, and buoyed by Ian’s absence, Ernesto did something she couldn’t ignore. She yelped when he grabbed her by her arm and yanked her back, forcing her to turn towards him. She was taken aback by how enraged he looked.

“Don’t you hear me talking to you, joto?!” he spat at her. She glanced around, alarmed, but they still weren’t close enough to the supermarket entrance and it was far too early for many people to be about. They were in the middle of a parking lot, but at the moment for Alex, it might as well be the middle of the Amazon. Ernesto still held her fast, gripping her elbow painfully, “you bitches are all alike; you think because you look the way you do you can treat a guy like shit?” he demanded, shaking her a little, “Vete a la verga, culero; you ain’t a bitch though, are you? You’re just a freak acting like a bitch. You gotta dick like a man, so you can square up like one.”

Alex stared at him, her face deadpan. “You want me to square up?”

The vicious right cross took Ernesto by surprise and there was the satisfying crunch of a nose being shattered. Ernesto staggered back, shocked and shaken to his core while blood poured from his nose. He didn’t have a chance to get his bearings before a hard fist to the mid-section doubled him over and an uppercut sent him crashing to the ground.

“What are you waiting for?!” Alex taunted him as Ernesto lay wailing on the ground. “Square up, motherfucker, this is what you wanted right?! Ten years of this shit; you think I haven’t had my ass beat a thousand times by better than the likes of you?!”

There had been no one for rescue earlier, but something about violence and the scent of blood in the air drew people out like sharks. Soon, a small crowd of workers and early morning shoppers—attracted by Alex’s and Ernesto’s screaming—was emerging. Nate and his group finally appeared on the scene and rushed to their fallen comrade’s aid.

“What the fuck are you doing, you crazy bitch?!” Kevin yelled as he came towards her.

Alex was so amped up, she was about to go for him, but a pair of strong arms wrapped around her and yanked her back.  Ian pulled her away from the fray and tried to calm her down, telling her that none of her tormentors were worth the trouble. Alex could not be placated.

“You wanna know about my dick so bad?!” she screamed as Ian hauled her off to the Escalade, “come over here so I can fuck you with it!”

Kevin and Nate moved to go after her only to be stopped by Mickey and his baseball bat standing squarely between them and their targets.  While his boyfriend hustled a now incoherently shouting Alex into the car, Mickey raised his eyebrow and his bat, keeping the men frozen. Nate seemed to contemplate charging past him, but was swiftly cowed into backing down.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Hagrid? Back the fuck up,” Mickey warned as he walked backwards towards the car. Before long, he was back in the driver’s seat and peeling out the parking lot.

* * *

“Why am I so stupid?!” Alex groaned into her pillow.

“You weren’t stupid,” Ian said as he lay next to her and rubbed her back soothingly. “He has been harassing you for weeks and he flat out threatened you. You were totally in your rights to drop him.”

“It doesn’t matter; I’m going to get fired,” Alex sighed heavily and sat up, “I just handed my dismissal to Simpson on a fucking silver platter.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry; I should have been there,” Ian said, “Simpson wouldn’t though. None of this is your fault.”

“Are you kidding? He’s wanted to get rid of me for ages and what better reason than ‘roided up tranny goes on a rampage?’ I’m so fucked and the messed up thing is I actually liked this job, you know? Asshole Patrol aside, of course. It’s the first independent thing I’ve done and the first thing my parents didn’t have their tentacles in.” Their conversation was interrupted by Alex’s phone chiming and just as she suspected, her job had been unceremoniously terminated. “Is getting fired by text better or worse than getting dumped by text?”

Ian took the phone and stared dumbfounded at the text from their boss. “That unbelievable piece of shit! He knows what went down!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Alex shook her head in defeat. “Nothing matters—the trend of shit continues.” She lay back on the bed, her blonde hair spreading out in a halo, and looked at her friend bleakly, “what am I going to do, Ian? I’m fucking useless. I’m not qualified for anything and everybody shies away from someone who looks like Alexis when her driver’s license says Alexander. I needed this job.”

“And you’ll get it back,” Ian reassured her firmly, “Simpson made a mistake. Someone just needs to show him that.”

* * *

“It’s just so unfair, you know?” Ian told Mickey as he sat on the floor next to his bed and typed up his essay. “Alex has been harassed since day one and Simpson let those assholes get away with it. He wouldn’t even let Alex use the ladies’ room—that’s the kind of fucked up shit she’s been dealing with this whole time!”

Mickey grunted in response as he lay on the bed, listening to Ian and rubbing his head. When he stopped the caress and let his hand hang off the bed, Ian simply grabbed it and plopped it back onto his head again, wordlessly telling Mickey he wasn’t allowed to stop. Mickey huffed in amusement and resumed running his fingers through Ian’s hair.

“You never said she was a tranny,” Mickey said, “shit, I wouldn’t have known just seeing her on the street. She can pass easy.”

“Don’t say ‘tranny,’ she’s a transwoman, or you know, just a woman,” Ian chastised gently, “and she just got fired because a bunch of losers can’t deal with all their confused dicks. She’s my best friend and now she’s out of a job. I just wish there was something that could be done, you know?” Ian said quietly.

Mickey was silent for a while as he played with Ian’s ears. “Yeah…okay,” he said under his breath, and Ian released his pent-up breath and smiled.

* * *

The following afternoon, Mickey finished up his tasks for the day and headed back to the pool house. The place seemed quiet and empty, but for Jaime fussing around in the kitchen.

“Iggy pick up Ian from school?” Mickey asked his brother while he grabbed a drink from the fridge. His brother nodded. “Where is he?”

“I think Sal lured him upstairs with something shiny,” Jaime responded automatically and sighed when he saw his brother visibly flinch and deflate a little, “I’m sorry, alright? I’m still working on that shit.”

Mickey cleared his throat and tugged at the sleeves of his suit jacket. “I need a heavy right now.”

“I just put the soup on!” Jaime complained and nodded to the huge pot on the stove, “will any heavy do? Tony’s in the basement watching Dora the Explorer; go take him.”

* * *

Mickey and Tony were already gone by the time Ian showered and made his escape downstairs. Since Jaime was in the kitchen, he stuck to the living room to work on his essay. He read and typed steadily for a while, but could not shake the feeling that he was being watched. He glanced up and a small figure disappeared in a blur behind the partition to the kitchen. Ian blinked and resumed his work, only for the feeling of surveillance to overtake him again. When he looked up suddenly, the small figure squeaked and disappeared again. Despite his trepidation about being around Jaime, Ian’s curiosity got the better of him.  He took a break and headed into the kitchen.

The mystery was solved immediately. He entered the kitchen to see Jaime at the stove and a little girl in a princess costume clinging to his leg as she hid from Ian.

“Jaynie, what did I tell you about doing that when daddy’s near the stove, baby?”

The child ignored her father and tried to hide better as she peeked out to stare at Ian. Jaime glanced over his shoulder to see Ian slowly rifling through the fridge and sighed when he couldn’t dislodge his gawking daughter. He backed away from the stove and picked her up. “What’s going on?” he asked her, and she only looked at Ian again and hid her face in her father’s shoulder as Ian looked on curiously. “What, you scared of him?” Jaime asked and she shook her head silently. “You’re acting like a punk,” he teased and grinned when she glared up at him. “I have to finish dinner, so you need to tell me what’s going on here,” he said. She sidled closer to her father’s ear, whispered her secret, and she glared when her dad snorted rudely and immediately betrayed her royal confidence. “You look like one of her princes,” Jaime informed Ian. “Fuck if I know which one. I don’t know what kind of princess has a prince turn up and all she does is hide from him. How would that fairytale go?” he set her down and nudged her towards Ian. “Go be a good hostess and let me finish dinner.”

“Your highness,” Ian said courteously and gave her a bow. Jayne shuffled her feet awkwardly but then curtsied and grinned shyly at Ian—this dude was alright.

It took all of fifteen minutes for her to completely take over Ian’s life as she held him captive at the kitchen island. She outlined his royal lineage and responsibilities with impressive detail and even went so far as to commission a royal portrait while she informed him of his marriage prospects.

“You’ll marry Auntie Mandy,” she decided magnanimously. Ian was handsome and dashing and all, but she had already decided upon another. She did, however, reserve the right to change her mind and flip everyone’s shit if her intended displeased her. She set about sketching Mandy next to her drawing of Ian.

“I think Prince Ian might be happier with another prince, baby,” Jaime said with a yawn, surprising the hell out of Ian and making him wonder if there was a dig in there somewhere.

Jayne blinked at her father then looked to Ian. “Really?”

Ian hesitated but then nodded slowly, shooting sidelong glances at Jaime’s back. Jayne frowned at her drawing. Well shoot, why hadn’t he said something sooner? Luckily she hadn’t filled in the long, flowing dark hair yet.

“Fine, Uncle Mickey then,” she declared imperiously, since it didn’t take much to transform the rough outline of her aunt into her closely resembling uncle.

“Thanks,” Ian said with a smile, “I’m totally okay with that.”

* * *

“So Nina’s all pissed off at me,” Tony informed his brother as they waited in the supermarket parking lot.

“What did you do?”

“It’s more what I didn’t do. She wants me to call her a bitch and all that kind of shit in the bedroom. I don’t know.”

“So call her a bitch in the bedroom; that seems like a particularly low level of difficulty. Fuck, you want me to do it? We can Cyrano de Bergerac that shit.”

Tony remained unconvinced, “it’s all these books she’s been reading; now she wants to try all this new nonsense. It feels like a trap. I can’t even give her a nickname on a normal day, now she wants me to call her a whore?”

“Eh, it’s sex. The rules are different; up is down, black is white. It’s like your dick gets hard and turns into a key to a whole other dimension.”

Tony was impressed, “that’s beautiful; you should be a poet.”

“That’s the second time I’ve heard that lately. I should consider it. Okay, there he is,” Mickey said and nodded to the car pulling into the lot. Mr. Simpson was right on schedule and Mickey and Tony went over to meet him as the man got out of his car. “Mr. Simpson,” Mickey greeted and the man gave them a harassed look.

“I already know the love of Jesus,” he said shortly.

Mickey and Tony exchanged a look and eyed each other up and down. Mickey sniffed, “we’re not Jehovah Witnesses; we’re wearing Burberry for god’s sake. We’re here to talk about Alexis Alden.”

“Ah, let me guess,” Simpson said as he slammed his car door shut, “UCLA?”

“I think you mean ACLU,” Tony said after a moment’s confusion. “And no, we’re more…independent contractors.”

“Honestly, I couldn’t give a damn who you guys are. I was well within my rights to fire that patchwork nightmare. If you’ll excuse me.” He tried to step past them to head into work, but he didn’t make it far before Tony grabbed and slammed his head onto the hood of his car.

“Here’s the thing,” Mickey began, “we feel you’ve made an error here and should reconsider. It is our understanding that Ms. Alden has been subjected to a hostile and unsafe working environment, which would make the most even tempered person snap. We don’t think she should be punished for that.”

“How would you feel if every time you showed up to work there were some assholes there threatening you and making you feel unsafe?” Tony said and ground Simpson’s head painfully against the warm metal. “That’s unacceptable.”

“The worst,” Mickey agreed, “you should give the lady back her job, Mr. Simpson. It’s a small thing to avoid a lot of trouble down the line. You want to keep your knees and I know you don’t want your fine establishment here to start having problems, right?” Mickey could see the realization dawn on the man’s face as he finally grasped with whom he was dealing. He nodded as much as Tony’s crushing hand would allow. “Oh, and she gets to use the ladies’ room. Don’t be an animal.”

“I have to protect my customers,” the man wheezed, “after she has the surgery—”

“That’s unacceptable too and you know that. I can personally guarantee that she’s not going to be whipping it out at anyone.”

“Is there a problem, Mr. Simpson?!” Kevin called out as he, Nate and a severely battered Ernesto made their way over. They paused when they saw Mickey straighten up and turn to face them.

“Are you blind or just retarded?” Mickey asked, “He’s having a whole lot of fucking problems. What you wanna do about them?”

The young men realized belatedly that it was perhaps best not to tangle with a couple of guys in expensive suits who were brazenly working a man over in broad daylight. They deeply regretted their decision to come over and sheepishly backed away, unsure how to make a graceful exit. It didn’t help when Mickey fanned them off, but they tried to take their leave as quickly as possible.

“Don’t go too far though, especially you, Ernie. We all need to have a talk,” Mickey called after them. “Don’t make me have to look too long and hard for you either.” He then turned back to the man still bent over the hood, now sweating profusely beneath Tony’s palm. “So what do you say, Mr. Simpson? Give the lady her job back, let her use the ladies' room, and we can make like this whole thing never happened.”

Simpson nodded again. It was an offer he could hardly refuse.

* * *

Ian sat on the edge of his bed that night waiting for Mickey to come through the door. He couldn’t stop his grin from exploding the second Mickey stepped inside. Mickey took him in and rolled his eyes as he dropped his keys on the night table and shrugged out of his coat.

“So I take it you got the news already?” Mickey said as he quickly stripped down to his boxers and tank, and carefully hung up his suit. He retrieved his sweatpants from the closet and pulled them on.

“He called Alex a couple hours ago, apologizing to her for all her pain and suffering and offering her job back,” Ian said, effervescent as Mickey snorted and lit up his cigarette. “He sounded rattled as fuck. He even gave her some paid days off,” he laughed, “thanks, you didn’t have to do that, but we're sure as fuck glad you did.”

Mickey blew out a plume of smoke. “I didn’t have to do that? Is that right?”

Ian finally picked up on the weird mood and stared at Mickey uncertainly before he got up and went over to him. “Wait, what’s the matter? Are you—are you mad at me?”

Mickey took another deep drag of his cigarette and regarded Ian silently for the moment. “I’m not saying you can’t manipulate me,” he eventually said, “but I’d appreciate if you were a little more subtle about it.”

Ian sputtered in surprise, “what, I wasn’t—”

“You wanted me lean on your boss, yes or no? But did you say that?”

“Well okay, yes, this is what I was hoping for, but it felt too weird to just ask you to do that, so I just kind of put it out there in the hopes you wouldn’t mind doing it. I wasn’t trying to manipulate you! Jesus fucking Christ, why would you make it sound like that?!”

“You felt weird asking because you know it’s a fucked up thing to do. Normal, law-biding, respectable people don’t send gangsters out to lean on people,” Mickey argued, “and this is the slippery slope shit I’m afraid of; catch you this time next year flat out telling me to whack a dude because he pissed you off!”

Ian’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly for a moment before he paused and observed Mickey with a raised eyebrow and the beginnings of a smirk. He edged closer until his crossed arms were bumping Mickey’s chest. “Are you saying you’d kill for me?”

Mickey let Ian crowd him and push him back against the wall as he smoked and stared up into Ian’s face. “The things I would do,” he whispered softly, prompting Ian to smile and lower his arms so he would grip Mickey’s hips. “That wasn’t the takeaway of what I was saying, Ian. This is the osmosis I was talking about.”

“This isn’t a slippery slope issue,” Ian told him, “I asked you because if I had put a brick through Simpson’s rear window like I wanted, then I would have lost the job I needed and Alex would still be fired. This isn’t you bleeding into me. This is just me, because I’m a vengeful, at times, violent person who is just trying to be a little smarter about it. I keep telling you this Boy Scout you’re trying to protect exists only in your head,” Ian said before he softened, “is that what you want from me? Because I don’t know how long I could keep that image from shattering.”

Mickey sighed and scratched the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “I don’t need you to be anything,” he said before he looked up at Ian again and made the conscious effort to let go of his fear, at least for the moment. “You know it wasn’t just about you; because you asked me.”

“Really now?” Ian said sceptically.

“The ego on you,” Mickey grunted, “the whole thing reminded me of Molly—my half-sister. She’s got a dick too.”

Ian gaped, “really? How am I just hearing this? She’s Trans?”

“We’re not really all that close. She was a baby when Terry disappeared and her mom was smart; kept her the fuck away from us. I don’t know if she’s Trans or whatever; she’s just Molly. I think she’s super into her dick though, but that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t be able to use the goddamned ladies’ room.”

“Oh, so this was also a stand for Molly?” Ian asked with a smile, “well I’m sure both Molly and Alex are grateful.”

Mickey fidgeted impatiently when Ian made no move to get closer or said anything else. “Well how about you?” he asked, fishing for his compliments.

“Oh, so you get mad at me, tell me it wasn’t really because I asked, but now you want me to kiss your ass?” Ian said softly and slipped his hands into Mickey’s sweatpants and underwear to cup his boyfriend’s ass. “Yeah, don’t worry, I’ll definitely kiss your ass,” he said before adding with soft determination as he pressed against Mickey, “the things I will do.”

* * *

“Where’s Sal?” Mickey asked a couple days later when he entered the pool house to find Ian alone on the couch.

Ian shrugged, “fuck if I know. He was getting calls from his wife, I think. Next thing he was outta here like a bat out of hell. I don’t think he’s coming back, so I was just waiting on you.”

“Huh,” Mickey said, nonplussed, and checked his phone for any calls or messages from Sal, but saw none. “You ready to go?”

“Ah, just hang on a sec,” Ian said and nodded to his laptop, “let me finish up this section.”

Mickey threw his coat over the back of the couch and went to sit next to Ian. To his surprise, Ian fished out some tutorials and dumped them on Mickey’s lap. “Do those; this essay is kicking my ass.”

Mickey gave Ian a harassed look and grabbed a pen. “I didn’t even finish high school; why the fuck do you think I can do this shit?”

“Because you’ve done them indirectly a dozen times before when you were teaching me, and because you’re amazing and your mind is beautiful and sexy, and doing my homework for me totally gets me going,” Ian rattled off.

“Whatever,” Mickey muttered with a roll of his eyes and a smile. He quickly scratched down the first answer. They worked silently for a while, both completely immersed in their tasks. When the door crashed open and shattered the peace and quiet, they were both jolted.

“Where is he?!” Linda demanded as she stormed into the pool house, her heels clicking against the marble tile as she marched in like a drill sergeant. “Where is that fat, fucking failure who calls himself my husband?!” At the sound of her voice, Mickey scrambled to his feet as Linda stomped to a halt just beyond the couch. She looked around, eagle-eyed, and her gaze flicked to Mickey, then Ian before she stalked into the kitchen.

“He’s not here.”

“Bullshit,” she hissed after checking the kitchen. Ian could only stare open-mouthed as she whipped around. So that was the wife, he mused. She was a beautiful woman, a Sophia Loren type of classic beauty. She was crisp, clean and statuesque in her navy blue Dior suit. The pencil skirt and towering stilettos were doing absolutely nothing to hamper her. “Is he up there?” she said as she headed for the stairs.

Ian and Mickey could hear the thuds as she searched the top floor, and Ian could already easily imagine her karate kicking doors in while clad immaculately in her expensive suit. Sal had done her no justice at all, but then again, Sal was a man singularly lacking in poetry and imagination. Soon, she had completed her search and having found Sal absent, directed her pique towards Mickey.

“Where is he?!”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit, he can’t wipe his ass without you!”

Mickey held up his hands and tried to placate her. “I swear to god, Linda; I don’t know. What’s the problem though?”

“I’ll tell you what the…” she trailed off and slowly turned to Ian, as if her fevered brain had finally registered him. “I’m sorry, but who the fuck are you?”

Ian scrambled to his feet as well and faced her with great trepidation. “Um, I’m Ian, ma’am.”

Linda’s eyes narrowed as she took him in and she slowly came around the couch, advancing on the nervous young man. “Ian ma’am, is it? And what exactly are you doing in my pool house, Ian ma’am?” she asked. Ian swallowed and his brain stalled before Mickey swooped in for the rescue.

“He’s a cousin; he’s hanging with me today.”

“Dear God in heaven, there’s more of you? Are the women in your family human beings or clown cars? How many of you do they pop out at once?” she sneered and her eyes fell on the schoolwork scattered over the table. She picked up a tutorial and skimmed it. “So Ian ma’am is actually Ian Gallagher? You’re Milkovich adjacent?”

“Cousin by marriage,” Mickey supplied helpfully.

“What’s the matter, Ian? Mickey’s got your tongue?” she asked with a delicate arch of an eyebrow. She read the heading of the paper. “Preston? That’s moderately impressive. Does the lack of ambition gene skip the Milkovich-adjacents?”

Ian didn’t miss the dig at Mickey and his family,  and that served to clear up his nerves immediately. “I think you’re confusing lack of ambition with lack of opportunity, Mrs. Boerio,” Ian said acidly and he wouldn’t think it possible for the cool grey eyes to get harder and narrower, but they did. Ian didn’t care; fuck her and the couture high horse she rode in on.

Mickey decided it was best to intervene before there was bloodshed. “You’re clearly upset and I don’t know why, Linda. What’s going on? I’ll probably be able to help you out better than Sal could.”

“Normally I’d agree with you,” Linda said as she dropped Ian’s paper, leaving it to flutter to rest where it may. She wiped her hands together and made her way back to Mickey. “Unfortunately, this issue is squarely in his wheelhouse. Unless, of course, you knew about this.”

“About what?”

“Two hundred thousand dollars is missing from my account—well, the joint account; withdrawn in increments over a few months,” Linda’s voice started out evenly, but grew tighter and higher as her anger re-emerged. “I was wondering why I hadn’t received any notifications in a while. No doubt he’s been spending it on his vices and his cheap, gold-digging whores—”

Ian shoved his hand with his expensive watch into his pocket as nonchalantly as he could.

“I said it before and I’ll say it again—no one touches what’s mine. I don’t give a fuck what he does with his blood money, but that money is mine. His name is there as decoration only. I’ve been calling him all afternoon, but I guess he’s slunk off to hide like the gutless pig he is to formulate some laughable plan.”

“Two hundred grand?” Mickey echoed hollowly.

“When he finally slithers back out into the sunlight, tell him this: I want my money back in my account. The longer he takes, the more likely I am to take my scalpel, slice open his scrotal sac and twist those useless, shrivelled up prunes he calls testicles until they pop right off. You tell him that for me,” Linda said before shooting Ian another glare and marching out of the pool house without a further word.

Ian was the first to recover from the onslaught. “Well, she seems nice,” Ian said and noticed how shell-shocked and confused Mickey looked. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Mickey’s brow furrowed. “I need you to give me an inventory of everything Sal’s given you since you guys started up,” Mickey said quietly, “everything; including the shit you hide from me.”

Ian twisted his hands into his jeans, suddenly apprehensive, but nodded when Mickey looked at him. Jesus, what now?

* * *

It was Alex’s first day back to work. It sucked that Ian’s shift was ending while hers began since they were just settling back into talking again. When she rounded the corner into the parking lot, she paused when she saw the mythical Mustang parked and its owner leaning easily against it, obviously waiting on Ian to finish his shift. She hesitated briefly before she took a deep breath and walked over.

“Mickey.”

He pushed away from the car to face her and Alex had to admit, he was very easy on the eyes. She could see now how Ian could go on and on about the hair and the jacket and the blue eyes, and the bad boy image worked for him. The car certainly didn’t hurt the image. If only the bad boy persona was just a look and not his actual way of life.

“We’ve never been formerly introduced,” she said lightly and gave a small awkward wave, “hi, I’m Alex.”

“Mickey; nice right hook,” he complimented her and she hitched a shoulder sheepishly.

“So a little birdie told me I had you to thank for getting my job back and for sending Ernesto on early retirement, so…thanks.”

Mickey nodded and fidgeted a bit, uncomfortable and unsure about how to deal with Alex and impatient to get Ian and get going. “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered offhandedly, “it wasn’t a big deal.”

The dismissiveness grated on Alex’s nerves badly. “Of course it isn’t,” she said wryly, “because this was really about flexing your muscles for your boyfriend and not much else.”

That certainly earned his full attention and he stared at her, somewhat amused. “Maybe I’m reading the mood wrong, but you don’t seem to like me very much.”

Alex shook her head, zipped her lips and took a step back. “Nope, staying out of it, not offering an opinion. I just got out of the doghouse. Thanks for the muscle and see you around.” She made a quick about face and headed towards the supermarket, only to make it about five steps before she paused, heaved a sigh to the heavens and turned back. “Nope, gotta say it; it will give me nightmares and heartburn if I don’t,” she said to Mickey, who only cocked his eyebrow. “I think you’re cruel.”

“Cruel?”

“Yes, cruel and this—” she said, waving her arms to encompass Mickey’s whole being, including the car, “—is all part of it. He has plans, you know? To finish college and escape the Southside for good, and maybe get to travel around Europe…”

“Who the fuck’s stopping him?”

“You, you ‘the fuck’ are going to stop him. He’s in love with you—which apparently makes you the center of the Ian universe—and you are a criminal. At your current trajectory, you have no positive future.”

“Wow, you WASP bitches don’t mince words, do ya?”

Alex cleared her throat, “it’s unpleasant but it doesn’t make it less true.” The statement made her wince for a bit because she did sound a lot like Joan in that moment. She pushed the thought away and soldiered on. “You’re a closeted mobster who is going to be in and out of prison until you die—probably in spectacular fashion admittedly—what’s Ian supposed to get out of this? Sitting around waiting for you to make parole so you can take clandestine car rides and have secret planetarium shows?”

Mickey scratched his cheek thoughtfully, “you must have way bigger problems than I imagined if you gotta ride my dick this hard to avoid them.”

Alex sputtered, “excuse me?!”

“Lady, I don’t give a flying fuck what you think about me and my prospects. I don’t even know you, you know fuck all about me, and I’ve gotten more than enough grief from people whose opinions I actually give a shit about. I don’t have the time or the space up here for you,” Mickey said, pointing to his head. “All I got from what you just said was that you don’t give your own friend enough credit to care about someone and still have a life, so, fuck you for that. I suggest you take your analysis and concerns and fix this mess you’ve got going on right here,” Mickey waved his arm at Alex, encompassing her entire being and shrugged when she glared at him, “it’s unpleasant but it doesn’t make it less true.”

Alex was rendered speechless. She turned and stormed off, almost bowling over Ian as he came out of the supermarket.

“Oh god, what now?” Ian groaned, “what happened? Who did what to whom?”

“She has a lot of opinions,” Mickey offered simply.

“Oh,” Ian said, understanding in an instant. “Mick…”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Mickey shrugged it off. If they had a crisis every time someone challenged them, they’d be fighting and going back and forth forever. “Doesn’t matter to me if it doesn’t matter to you. Wanna go for a ride?”

* * *

It was trickier in the Mustang, but there was nothing Ian loved more. They had found a perfect lookout spot and he had reclined his seat until it was almost flat. He then lay back and let Mickey take it from there. He moaned breathily as Mickey sank down onto him and he leaned up to push one side of Mickey’s open shirt off his shoulder so he could nip at the muscle there and make Mickey groan. Mickey kept riding him slowly and the Mustang’s windows fogged up as easily as the Renault’s, blocking out everything as the bubble reformed.

An automated voice popped it. “This call will be recorded and monitored. You have a collect call from _‘Mandy motherfucker!’_ an inmate at the Cook County Jail. Do you accept this—”

“Jesus, fuck!” Mickey quickly rifled through the pile of clothes on the driver’s seat to find his phone. He accepted the call and Ian was introduced a hurricane-force Mandy Milkovich at full blast.

“When am I coming home, assface?!” she crackled across the line.

Mickey covered Ian’s mouth and rolled off him so he could settle on his seat with a groan. “Are you seriously calling me with this shit now?”

“I’m not getting left at the fucking bus stop, Mickey!”

“Relax, god, I’m coming to get you myself. You don’t have to worry about it.”

That appeared to mollify her and the angry edge to her voice softened a bit. “Ugh, I can’t wait to get out. I fucking hate it here.”

“Are you saying jail isn’t the breezy summer camp I left behind? If you can’t do the time…”

“I’m going to knee you so hard in the nuts when I see you,” she snarled. “What the fuck were you doing? You sound out of breath.”

“I was training for the half-marathon,” Mickey  said, “you’ve only got a couple more days. Keep your head down and stay clear of everybody. Last thing you need to someone jamming you up and getting more time added.”

“Don’t worry about it; I’m practically wallpaper right now. Just don’t be late, fucker,” she warned. “Is the mouth breather next to you hot at least?”

Mickey smiled at Ian’s affront and quickly covered his mouth before he could fire off a retort. Mickey was taking no chances with monitored phone calls. “Just go will your shit out and chill for the couple days. I’m coming to get you.”

When the call disconnected, Mickey tossed his phone on the dashboard with a smile. “She’s going to love your pretty ass,” he reassured Ian. “Now where was I?”

“On my dick.”

“Of course,” Mickey said and climbed back into Ian’s lap, “who would want to be anywhere else?”

* * *

They actually beat the transport van to the drop off site two days later. Ian and Mickey sat in latter’s ’67 Impala, yawning up a storm as they waited for his sister in the cold, early morning hours.  Ian wasn’t about to admit it, but he was nervous. The way how Mickey talked about his sister, Ian figured she might be the only one who could actually convince Mickey that he needed to call everything off between them. he just wanted to make a good impression.

“They’re here,” Mickey said and they watched as the corrections officer unloaded the women, made sure they had their money and bus passes, and sent them on their way. Even without seeing pictures of her, it wouldn’t have been hard to guess which of the newly released women was the Milkovich sister. Her etched-in sneer was unholy, and Ian realized that for all Mickey’s talk of being alpha and such boasts, his boyfriend might only be the fourth most intimidating Milkovich he’s met.

Mickey whistled and Mandy finally spotted him. The scowl transformed instantly into the sweetest smile and the resemblance was really stunning to see. She ran over to her brother, who promptly enveloped her in a hug and let her bury her face in his neck.

“You smell like barbeque sauce,” Mickey told his sister when they pulled apart.

“Yeah, well it’s the closest thing to perfume you can get in that bitch,” she joked before she spotted Ian smiling happily at the family reunion. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously and the hardness was back. “What’s so fucking funny, Opie?” she said sharply, immediately putting Ian on the defensive, “what the fuck are you looking at?!”

Well so much for making a good first impression.     


	23. The Ties That Bind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Just a quick disclaimer that I probably should have made earlier. The sexual activities depicted in this story are not meant to be taken as an accurate representation of a proper BDSM lifestyle. What I hope to portray are two amateur idiots in love, feelings things out, exploring their kinks and encountering some of the tenets and and practices of said lifestyle. It probably goes without saying, but please don't use fanfiction as a sexual gospel, and always keep it safe, sane and consensual with your partner(s)._

For a fraught moment, Ian thought Mandy was really going to attack him going by the suddenness with which she came at him. Before she could take a full step towards Ian though, Mickey yanked her back and planted her on the other side of him, putting himself between her and his startled boyfriend.

“Fresh out the clink,” Mickey said to Ian as an apology and explanation, “she’s a little jumpy.” He then turned to his sneering sister, “will you relax? He came here with me to pick up your aggro ass. Ian, Mandy; Mandy, Ian Gallagher,” he said and hesitated a little when Mandy looked at him pointedly; the question clear in her eyes. “He’s, uh, he’s Sal’s new side piece.”

Wow, that stung. Ian had been bracing for that introduction, knowing how uncomfortable Mickey was about explicitly admitting to their relationship to anyone not already in the know. Neither he nor Mickey was looking forward to whatever objections Mandy might have about their situation. They had been fighting for their relationship and defending it from day one, and it was an exhausting, frustrating process. Still, Ian had dared to hope for better, and for Mickey to still refer to him as “Sal’s” hurt worse than he thought it would.

Mickey shot him an uncomfortable, apologetic look before dipping his head and looking away. Mandy, on the other hand, was staring at him with undisguised curiosity and bafflement. Ian tried to shake off the sting and plastered on a brittle smile for Mandy. “Yep, that’s me.”

Mandy was flabbergasted. She eyed Ian from head to toe. “You’re fucking Sal?” she asked, her voice squeaking a bit in disbelief. “Jesus, you’re the living embodiment of a midlife crisis, or whatever shit Sal’s doing,” she mused before turning to her brother, “I guess this is as close as a guy can get to sticking his dick in a red corvette.”

Mickey couldn’t help but snort at that. He had more or less thought the same thing after he’d first met Ian and managed to stuff his tongue back into his mouth. Mandy also had a very similar line of thinking and questioning.

“What happened to Victor/Victoria?” she asked.

“Got dumped,” Mickey said succinctly and jerked his head towards Ian. Mandy couldn’t find fault with that upgrade.

“Since when does Sal  date… _that_?” she asked after groping about for an appropriate word and failing. Fortunately, Mickey had been in the exact spot she was and knew exactly what his sister meant.

“Since him.”

“But he’s so yo—”

“I know.”

“And he’s really—” she said again, waving a hand before her face.

“I know,” Mickey said with a small sigh and Ian fought the urge to point out that he was a living, breathing person who was standing right fucking there and not a conversation piece.

Mandy stared at Ian hard before levelling a gaze at her brother. “And since when do we take side pieces on field trips?”

Mickey scratched the back of his head self-consciously. “Gallagher’s okay, alright? You wanna chitchat all day or you want to get out of here? The other parolees must be halfway to California by now!”

Mandy snorted but let it slide for the moment as she shot them both suspicious glances before deliberately heading for the front passenger seat. Ian wasn’t about to protest. He was back down to “Gallagher” and by the time they got Mandy home, Mickey would probably wonder who Ian was and why he stowed away in the back seat.

“You hungry?” Mickey asked his sister after they’d finally set off towards home. “What do you want?”

“Every goddamned thing on the McDonald’s breakfast menu and maybe a pizza,” Mandy said with a yawn and pushed her seat back so she could stretch and prop up her legs on the dash board.

Mickey glanced nervously in his rear-view mirror to see Ian sitting subdued in the backseat. “What about you? You want anything?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Ian said far too quietly for Mickey’s nerves. A muted Ian was so much worse to him than a pouty, pissed-off one.

Mickey felt like crap. He had come with the intention of just ripping off the Band-Aid and telling his sister exactly who Ian was and about their relationship, only for his brain to scramble and wind up chickening out at the last moment. He had yet to say it out loud; his brothers had found him out, so had Dre and he was sure Mandy would too, eventually. He didn’t know what his hang-up was. Sure, he’d never been in a relationship before and he had never had to “claim” anyone, but he had never been surer of anything in his life than loving Ian. Still, the idea of stepping outside that bubble just made his brain stall.

“Nah, I’ll get you something,” Mickey said as he pulled into the next McDonald’s drive-thru. “You’re going to feel hungry once you start smelling all the crap she ordered.”

Mandy glanced back at Ian as well as her brother pulled up to the speaker. Ian had certainly deflated a bit since she’d first set eyes on him. The contrast between him and Sal’s usual sort was still flooring her. Maybe it was because she had been locked up a while, but she was having trouble remembering the last time she had seen a guy this dreamy. This was saying something because “dreamy” was not a word she was fond of using, but it was more than applicable in this instance. She was distracted from her thoughts by Mickey collecting the massive breakfast order and pulling off to park at the quiet end of the lot. She raised an eyebrow as Mickey gingerly handed Ian his coffee and food before taking his own and unceremoniously dumping the rest in her lap. She was starting to feel that she wasn’t the guest of honour in the car.

“So, what were you in for?” Ian asked in an attempt to shake off his disappointment. He had forgotten how taboo questions were with Milkoviches and clapped his mouth shut when Mandy looked back at him with an incredulous sneer. She then looked up at her brother who was grinning at his boyfriend’s haplessness.

“Is he for real?”

“That was like the third question he asked me when we met,” Mickey told her, “it’s a thing with him; just tell him.”

Mandy gave Ian another dubious eye, “they got me on promoting prostitution,” she said begrudgingly since Mickey gave her the go ahead, “assface here got locked up and somebody had to help with the Rub and Tug—”

“No, no…” Mickey interrupted, “don’t be misleading, like you fell on your sword or some shit. Say what actually happened.”

Mandy rolled her eyes and huffed, “I was looking for some fresh blood, okay? But I ended up propositioning an off duty officer—” she glared at Ian when he choked on his coffee laughing, “she looked like an easy mark!”

“Not every hot girl in a slutty dress is viable; I keep telling you this,” Mickey said to his sister, “I also keep telling you to leave procuring alone because you have zero fucking instincts when it comes to that shit,” Mickey chastised and glared at his sister when Mandy flipped him off and huffily bit into her McGriddle.

Ian couldn’t help his grin; he couldn’t imagine two more adorably grumpy people. The shocking ease with which they discussed outrageous crimes only made the whole thing weirdly funnier. He kicked the back of Mickey’s seat to get his attention. “So procuring is your job alone?”

“Me and Svetlana’s,” Mickey replied, grinning back at Ian through the rear-view mirror, “because Svetlana, at least, doesn’t immediately hone in on the nearest cop and I always know a good thing when I see it,” he said meaningfully, making Ian’s face warm. The moment was broken by Mandy punching her brother in the arm… hard. “Ow! What the—”

“You stupid mother—” Mandy began before she gave in and hit Mickey again.

“What the fuck is your— _ow!_ —stop hitting me!”

“Really?! Really, Mickey?” Mandy yelled and tossed some wadded wrappers at Mickey. “The first motherfucker Sal gets that’s not the crypt keeper and you get your dick out?”

“Don’t get shit all over my car, Mandy! What the fuck is your problem?!”

Ian sighed and took a literal backseat as the squabbling siblings squared off. This had certainly escalated quickly and this time, he knew well enough to keep his mouth shut and to stay well out of it until absolutely necessary.

“Are you two fucking?!” Mandy demanded as she looked from one man to the other. “You’re fucking aren’t you?! Tell me you’re not fucking!”

Silence reigned for a moment as Mandy waited for an answer. Mickey said nothing, but rubbed beneath his lower lip with his thumb while he looked everywhere but at his sister. Mandy was neither charmed nor amused. She punched him in the bicep again and seemed ready to start wailing on him.

“Jesus, alright! Yes, okay? We’re—We’re together,” Mickey admitted. Mandy’s head whipped around to Ian who simply waved at her feebly.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?! If Sal—”

“There isn’t an outcome that hasn’t been extensively covered and explained to us, believe me,” Mickey said, exasperated. “It is what it is, alright? You were in lockup, so you missed all the drama. But we’ve already done it all. We tried to stay away from each other; that didn’t work. Jaime worked us over; it’s still happening. We’re trying to figure out how to deal with Sal, but in the mean time, we’re doing this. That’s it.”

Mandy stared at her brother slack jawed, at a total loss as to what to say. Ian decided it was as good a time as any to chime in to crack the tense, awkward silence. “If it helps any, we’ve even done the ‘I love you’ thing. So, you know, pretty serious.”

Mandy did seem surprised at that and blinked at her reddening brother. “You told him you loved him?!” she asked and let out a shocked laugh when he eventually nodded. “Are you fucking serious? What the hell happened while I was locked up?” she mused aloud, “Is Obama still president? Are the Chinese running shit now?”

“Yes,” Ian supplied helpfully, “and sort of if you analyze it from an economic standpoint.”

“He goes to Preston,” Mickey said with an alien note of pride in his voice that was doing Mandy in, “he’s going to be a business major.”

“Business major?” Mandy turned a critical eye on Ian, “you’re a college boy? I thought you were some go-go gold-digger from Boys Town,” she said before squeezing her eyes shut in realization that she had just given the game away. Mickey had caught on immediately.

“How the fuck did you know that?” Mickey said, rounding on her, “who the fuck told? Was it Iggy?”

“Hmm, ‘go-go gold-digger’ smells a lot more like Jaime,” Ian said drily.

Mandy sighed in defeat, “they all told me, alright? Each of the idiots wrote me or came to see me at least once at some point, freaking out about it.”

“You were blabbing my fucking business all over Cook County?!”

“We used code!” Mandy said, now flustered by her brother’s ire. “We’re not idiots.”

“What code? What fucking code? What kind of code did you space cadets actually use?!”

“Well…” Mandy cleared her throat and then nodded to Ian, “he was ‘Gingersnap,’ Sal was ‘Cookie Monster’ and—”

“God, just stop,” Mickey groaned. It didn’t need Hercule Poirot to work out that Jaime and Tony had concocted the cookie code. Kids had ruined his brothers. Mickey rested his head against the steering wheel and sighed while his sister looked on.

Mandy’s whole stance finally softened. She had had to piece together bits and snatches of the story and it had been aggravating as hell. It was surreal to be in the thick of it and realizing that Mickey had really committed to this and was now neck deep in a secret relationship. “So you’re serious about this then?”

Mickey sat up and wiped a tired hand over his face. “Yeah…because, you know, love or whatever.”

“I’m bookmarking this moment,” Ian said, “and I’m making sure our wedding invitations simply say ‘because, you know, love or whatever,’” he teased and Mickey rolled his eyes before snorting with laughter and reaching for a cigarette. When Mandy sent Ian another critical look, he gave her his most winsome “please love me and don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be” smile.

“He’s a dumb puppy, you know that?” Mandy muttered and bummed one of her brother’s cigarettes.

“The dumbest,” Mickey agreed, “but I’m keeping him.”

Mandy grunted softly and smoked for a while in quiet contemplation. She then surprised Ian by suddenly shoving herself into the backseat and settling next to him, stretching her legs across his lap and reclining easily against the door. “Wanted to see if you were a Monet,” she said. “So tell me the full story, dumb puppy,” she ordered, “starting from when you thought sweaty Salvatore was a good fucking choice to when you figured hooking up with a Milkovich would be an upgrade. Because I gotta say, this smells like terrible decision making.”

Mickey smiled to himself, dumped all the garbage from the car and pulled out of the parking lot. He’d leave the two of them to it.

* * *

Mandy, much to her annoyance, was getting the pants charmed off her by her brother’s cute, goofy boyfriend. She tried her best not to show it though and tried to remain gruff as Mickey drove them home. She had the sneaking, equally annoying suspicion that Ian knew he had already won. His hand rested easily on her legs, he chatted to her breezily and he had even hazarded teasing her a few times. He seemed like a guy who could probably charm anyone and was used to people naturally liking him. Her father would have loathed him to the bone. From what she remembered, charismatic, pretty boys set Terry’s teeth on edge. Her thoughts derailed when she felt Ian tense and she realized he was reacting to Mickey’s phone ringing.

“Tony wants me to see something,” Mickey explained after he hung up, “gonna make a little detour for a few minutes.”

It was down at the docks again—never a good sign in Ian’s opinion. He was still tense when Mickey parked outside an apparently unused warehouse and barked at them to stay in the car. He watched, grim faced, as Mickey disappeared inside, much to Mandy’s amusement and curiosity.

“You worry about him all the time?” she asked lightly and gazed at him over her cigarette in the same way her brother would, with a hint of mocking and genuine bemusement in their tone.

“Well yeah, don’t you?” Ian replied as he fidgeted uncomfortably; his eyes and ears straining for any sign of trouble.

Mandy shrugged, “Sometimes? It can get dicey, but I’m used to this mess—we all are. If I got my panties in a twist every time shit when down, I’d be a walking ulcer. They can handle their shit most of the time. Does it freak Mickey out, you getting worked up over him like this?”

Ian frowned at the odd question. “I guess he doesn’t want me to worry and he usually just doesn’t want me to think about it. But worrying about all of this would be natural, wouldn’t it? Why would it freak him out?”

 “It would freak me the fuck out,” Mandy confessed, “it’s always weird when anyone outside the family acts like they give a shit. Usually means they want something or they’re working some kind of angle. We don’t really know what to do with people acting all concerned.”

Ian didn’t know what to say to that. Instead, he gently tested the waters on a sore topic. “Is Sal expecting to see you soon?”

Mandy’s answering snort was loud and rude. “Fuck Sal. As far as he’s concerned, I and my frightening vagina dentata could rot in prison. He can’t live without Mickey so he sends him the best and gets him out in two months with probation and counselling. Meanwhile, my ass gets one step above a public defender. I’m just lucky my charge was non-violent and they were short on beds,” she said before she stretched and straightened up. When she opened the door to get out, Ian tried to stop her.

“He said to stay in the car!”

“Aw, you’re going to worry about me too?” Mandy laughed as she got out. She closed the car door and leaned in the window. “He told _you_ to stay in the car, princess. He’s keeping you nice and clean but the bloom’s well off my rose. Just reach over and honk if you see anything weird!” she called back and skipped off into the warehouse.

* * *

She found her brothers at the far end of the warehouse peering studiously into the back of a car. She received no warning glares or marching orders so she ran over to pounce on Tony.

“Hey, there’s the jailbird,” Tony greeted her as he swept her off her feet. “Good to have you back, kid.”

He set her down and she immediately checked out the back of the trunk. Blue, sightless eyes stared up at her and she immediately wrinkled her nose. “God, I haven’t even been out of jail for two hours yet and you’ve got me looking at dead bodies?” she sighed. Only her brothers proudly showed each other corpses the way cats presented dead mice to their owners.

“But no, check him out right?” Tony nudged her, “who does he look like?” he prompted. He waited for Mandy to sing out the answer, but she was unforthcoming. “He looks just like you and Mick, I swear to god; it’s so freaky! It actually messed me up a little. I couldn’t even carve him up like I planned to.”

“Ugh, you psychopath.”

“It’s a signature, Mandy!” Tony said defensively, “but Mick, seriously, don’t you think he could be an unknown Milkovich?”

Mickey had to admit, there was a resemblance that was somewhat striking. It wouldn’t be surprising in the least to find out that there were more of them out there of a range of ages. For all they know, Terry had probably set up shop with a whole new set somewhere else. Although, he doubted Terry would willingly give them up just to change families. Terry Milkovich would want them all together; he wouldn’t let a single one of them go easily. Every so often he wondered what would happen if his father were to reappear to reclaim them. It wasn’t a scenario his brain could handle.

“Who was he?” Mandy asked.

“One of Lucky’s guys,” Tony informed her, “gotta clean shop.” He then turned to Mickey, “what do you think, take him down to the plant?”

“Too much heat’s on; concrete’s better. They’re going to be laying the foundation soon over at that new mini-mall. He can be part of it. Or you know what else you could do…”

Mandy tuned out of the conversation and headed back to keep Ian company and harass him a little. Her new brother-in-law was far more interesting than dead body disposal.

* * *

The Milkovich house was something to behold and Ian was struck by the familiarity of it all. It was the day after Mandy’s release and her brothers were throwing her a party at their childhood home. So Ian found himself back in the Southside, surprisingly only a couple L stops from his own neighbourhood, and Mickey’s old house could have easily belonged to one of his neighbours. He wasn’t sure if it was unsettling or comforting.

He helped Mickey unload the liquor and supplies from the Impala and followed him inside. The differences between his childhood home and Mickey’s became more obvious upon entering. There was more junk, for one—random accoutrements scattered and stacked everywhere. It was untidier and, inexplicably, felt far more oppressive. The energy felt off and Ian wondered if it was any better at all when Mickey and his siblings were kids living there.

“Who lives here now?” Ian asked as they descended into the basement. Mandy’s demands had been clear—family and close friends only and no chance of Sal crashing in on them. That had ruled out the pool house and Sandrini’s.

“Well officially we all do,” Mickey said, wiping his hands on his jeans and heading back up the stairs. “This is still my primary address in case anyone comes looking, but, uh, some cousins are staying here.”

Mickey led him to a room at the rear of the house and it was obvious to Ian from the moment the door swung open that this was Mickey’s room. Either the room stayed empty while Mickey was away, or whoever stayed in the house was careful not to touch anything. Dark posters and juvenile scrawling covered the walls and small slivers of sunlight fell onto the tiny, single bed shoved into the corner. It was an odd sort of organized chaos and Ian tried to visualize an eight year old Mickey sitting in this room on the small couch across from the bed, on the brink of desperation.

“This was my room—is my room, I mean,” Mickey said and kicked a deflated football out of the way. “It’s a piece of shit, but you know.”

“It’s not so bad; at least it was just yours. Imagine having to share with all your brothers. Plus, at least you can fit on your bed,” Ian teased and laughed when Mickey flipped him off. “You come back here often?”

“Nah,” Mickey shook his head and glanced bleakly around the small room. “I check in once in a while, make sure it’s still standing, and sometimes if I need to get away from the pool house and have nowhere else to go. But I don’t just come here for the hell of it. Not a lot of great memories here to come back to.”

Ian picked up the sombre tone and he instinctively reached for Mickey to comfort him. The bedroom door was still open, so Mickey flinched away before Ian could touch him as a babble of voices came floating from the front of the house. Ian dropped his hand in resignation and stepped back.

“We need to get things started,” Mickey murmured and stepped past Ian. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Ian knew this was a different sort of affair when he saw Mickey slamming back his first shot. The party was already well underway and there was a crush of bodies in the basement which served as the hub. It was just family and close friends, but as Ian was realizing, the Milkoviches were a very large, extended brood and weirdly bonded in spite of their number and varied lifestyles.

It was like nothing he’d seen at Sandrini’s. They were in the heart of the Southside and a world away from the North side mob scene. There were no gangsters to schmooze or coddle, there was no responsibility to oversee every detail and to make sure things ran smoothly; it was a different kind of safe place and Mickey and his siblings were making full use of it and cutting loose.

Ian accepted a beer from Joey, who was stationed behind the makeshift bar, and made sure to give Mickey a wide berth. The Southside might be freeing in one way, but it still came with its own harsh restrictions. He had no fond memories of being closeted and fearful as he manoeuvred through his teens and he was sure Mickey didn’t have any either. He took a sip of his beer and watched longingly as Mickey downed more shots with his sister and brothers.

“Hey.”

The first thing that sprung to Ian’s mind was “hipster Jesus.” The young man before him had gauged ears, a messy man-bun and a carefully unkempt beard.

“Crazy, huh?” the man persisted when Ian only blinked at him and Ian remembered himself and nodded.

“Yeah,” he responded with a short laugh.

“Not having fun? You’ve been pretty quiet but you don’t really strike me as the wallflower type,” the guy asked, smiling coyly at Ian.

“Oh no, yeah, I just… I don’t know a lot of people here.”

“Same, buddy of mine behind the bar—,” he said nodding to Joey, “—his sister got sprung from the clink; told me to come on down and celebrate. I’m Eric, by the way,” the man said and extended his hand.

Ian took it, “Ian.”

Eric didn’t immediately release it, but seemed to have a brain blast. “This is gonna sound like a total line, but I swear I know you from somewhere. Don’t be offended, but, uh, Boys Town? White Swallow?”

“I’m not offended and yeah, that was probably me.”

“Oh fuck, I knew it,” Eric said gleefully and finally released Ian’s hand. “I was trying so hard to place you; I think all the clothes were throwing me off,” Eric grinned broadly and Ian couldn’t help but laugh at that. “So are you here with anyone or—”

“Ian,” Mickey said sharply from a few feet away, clearly not happy.

Ian gave Eric an awkward smile and began to mumble his apologies as he drifted towards Mickey. Eric returned an awkward smile of his own and backed away. He guessed that answered his question.

“What’s up?” Ian asked his boyfriend, who was busy glaring at a retreating Eric.

“What was that?”

“That was someone mingling at a party and possibly hitting on me,” Ian said easily, “it happens every so often; it’s not a crime. What else do you need cleared up?”

Mickey sighed but lowered his hackles. He glanced at Ian sheepishly before nodding to the beer in Ian’s hand, “is that all you’re drinking?”

“Yeah,” Ian said, choosing to ignore Mickey’s underlying questions. Giving how uninhibited everyone was acting, Ian figured someone had to stay fairly sober. Besides, Mickey and Alex were right, his drug and alcohol tolerance had taken a dive since he’d been on his meds. The last few times he’d seriously indulged, he’d gotten knocked on his ass.

Mickey sighed again as he looked at Ian, and the conflict was evident on his face. He then looked out around the crowded basement and Ian followed his eyes, trying to see what Mickey saw. There were friends and family, all getting wasted and having a chaotic good time. Ian doubted that any more than a handful of people knew about Mickey’s sexual orientation and there was no telling how the rest would respond. It wasn’t necessarily a safe place and each person was a variable that was ultimately beyond Mickey’s control. While this Southside was a world removed from the Outfit, worlds collided all the time and damaging information could be advertently or inadvertently exchanged. Ian could see Mickey’s mind spinning as he stared out at the partiers.

“It’s okay,” Ian said as softly as the blaring music would allow. Mickey looked up at him, surprised and uncertain. “It’s fine, Mick; it really is. You don’t need to do this to prove anything. If you’re not ready—”

Mickey cut him off by pressing close and pulling Ian down for their kiss, taking the latter briefly by surprise. Ian surrendered to it completely, cradling Mickey’s head with his free hand and circling his waist with the other.  They got lost in the moment easily as the revelry of the party continued around them, unabated and uninterrupted. No one paid attention to their moment, no one even cared, and for the first time in his life, Ian figured that being invisible might just have some benefits.

* * *

By the time Mickey grabbed Ian to head upstairs, he was falling down drunk. He made it up the stairs, with Ian’s laughing assistance, and weaved his way towards his old bedroom. When he shoved the bedroom door open, he and Ian found two pairs of teenagers passionately making out on the small couch and his bed.

“The fuck out!” Mickey roared menacingly and the young couples hurriedly scrambled out before the drunken wrath of god could rain down on them. “Youths,” Mickey hissed as he shut the door with a slam, making Ian laugh out loud again.

“Yeah okay, grandpa,” Ian said, watching Mickey struggle with the Herculean task of taking off his shirt. He caught Mickey just in time to stop him from crashing into the wall.

Mickey gave up for the moment, completely giddy, and leaned against Ian, burying his face in his boyfriend’s neck and willing the room to stop spinning. He laughed to himself about depending on Ian for balance because usually it was Ian who was destroying it.

“I like fucking carrot tops,” Mickey confided.

“Hmm, yeah?”

“Like with the freckles and the pale skin; fucking alien looking?” Mickey laughed, “you have freckles on your dick.”

“Oh fuck you, I do not!” Ian laughed and swayed Mickey gently.

“Yeah, you do. They disappear when you get hard,” Mickey slurred. “Dizzy,” he then mumbled softly into the Ian’s T-shirt and burrowed even closer.

“You’re being so cute right now, I can’t stand it,” Ian said, stroking Mickey’s hair before he guided him to the bed and gently pushed him down. It took a bit of effort, but he managed to divest Mickey of everything but his boxers and tucked him against the wall before shrugging off his own clothes.

“Get on me,” Mickey slurred and tugged at Ian’s boxers.

“Nah,” Ian shook his head but pulled Mickey close, “for one thing you’re completely shit-faced right now and I kinda just want to look at you being drunk and cute and happy because your family’s all together again.” He grinned and stroked Mickey’s face as the man exhaled noisily, but Mickey’s brain was too scrambled to debate the point.  He shifted a bit, nudging Mickey until the inebriated man was sprawled on his chest. “Love you, assface.”

“Pfft, gay,” Mickey murmured and before too long, he was out cold.

* * *

Mickey still had a bit off a buzz going the following morning when he awoke. This time, when he slipped his hand into Ian’s boxers, he found the man far more receptive to his advances than he had been the night before. Ian groaned contentedly as Mickey stroked him, and when Ian was good and hard, he shoved Mickey onto his back and laughed out loud when Mickey dragged the covers over their heads, enveloping them both in a cocoon of sheets.

“Do you want this?” Ian asked a short time later when he was finally able to surge into Mickey after making his body ready.

Mickey bit Ian’s shoulder as the man filled him and fell back panting, “yes.”

Ian tangled his fingers in Mickey’s hair and tugged his head back, allowing him to lick along the column of Mickey’s throat as he thrust into him again. “Do you want this?”

“Jesus, he said yes like forty times. How much confirmation do you need?!” the exasperated voice of an irritated, hung over, young woman floated out from across the wall making the two men grind to a halt.

Mickey fought his way out from under the covers. “Mandy, what the fuck?!” This is what he had had to endure in a house where the one working bathroom was supposed to be his private one.

“Ugh, don’t mind me and stop on my account. Pay no attention to the parolee whose bladder almost burst waiting for you noisy fuckers.”

Mickey fell back against the pillow and cut his eyes at a very amused Ian. He waited for what he felt was a reasonable amount of time. “Jesus, have you finished draining the lake yet?!”

“I have,” his sister sang out, “now I’m starting phase two!”

Ian burst out laughing and Mickey glared at him. Finally, he yanked the sheets back over his and Ian’s heads. He was determined to make some good memories in this place for once. “Fuck it, she said not to mind her. Get on me.”

* * *

Sal had gone to ground. It was the only way Ian could think of it. It had been days now since the capo had slunk off somewhere, laying low while clearly hiding from his wife. Even Mickey couldn’t track him down since Sal wasn’t at any of his usual haunts. He had left his crew floundering a little although he would occasionally call with terse instructions and not much else. Ian found the whole thing a little pathetic and funny; Mickey though, not so much.

Ian was surprised to see a text from his wayward, missing lover. For one thing, Sal never texted and Ian wasn’t sure if the man even knew how to text let alone texting with that much jargon. The message was short and simple, an apology for his absence and a declaration of how much he loved and missed Ian and a promise to see him soon. Whoever Sal was with wasn’t even making an attempt to disguise that he wasn’t actually Sal. Ian found this even funnier. He fired off a “sure,” and tossed his phone on the kitchen counter so he could finish washing up. He honestly hoped Sal was getting it and getting it good from someone far more dedicated than Ian.

He had just finished washing up when Mickey came in, clutching a small duffle bag and nodding nervously, immediately putting Ian on alert. Ian dried his hands and came around the corner, all the while glancing at the bag with deep curiosity. “Hey,” he said and gave Mickey a quick kiss. The man was still clutching the bag for dear life, “what’s going on?”

Mickey licked his lips and appeared to hesitate. “Nothing, um, I was wondering if you could hold something for me.”

Ian stared at the bag again and his heart sped up. He always suspected this day would come. “What is it, guns, drugs, money?” he whispered breathlessly, excited and awed to embark on this new chapter of his life as a gangster moll. Only, Mickey was looking at him as if his brain was leaking out his ears.

“Why would I bring that shit here, Ian?!” Mickey said, “no, it’s not drugs, guns or _money_ ” he said, mimicking Ian’s dramatic whisper. “It’s some personal stuff.”

“Oh,” Ian said, relieved and disappointed at the same time. “What’s the big deal then, weirdo?” he asked as he grabbed the bag from Mickey’s hands, figuring it contained more clothes or toiletries. Before Mickey could squeak out a protest, Ian had set the bag on the bed and had unzipped it, intent on packing away the things for Mickey. He opened the bag and froze as he stared down at the contents—it didn’t contain toiletries. Ian upended the bag and a bunch of sex toys rained down in a shower of perversion and glitter.

In retrospect, Ian might have been imagining the glitter.

He stared at Mickey, slack jawed, and Mickey at least had the good grace to look a little embarrassed by it all. “Those are my, uh, my toys,” Mickey said awkwardly.

Ian said nothing as he stared back down at the multitude of sex toys now scattered on his bed. His eyes were immediately drawn to one in particular. In truth, there was nowhere else one could reasonably look. It was quite the centrepiece and the focus pull given that it was the most massive black dildo Ian had ever seen. Mesmerized, he picked it up somewhat gingerly. It was thick, it was veiny, it had _heft_. Ironically, it was not for the limp-wristed. Ian knew it was probably his imagination again, but he was almost sure it was throbbing like a sentient being. Clutching the biggest dildo in existence, Ian turned to stare at his boyfriend again in stupefaction.

“Uh, yeah, no that was—that’s not—that was a gag gift Iggy gave me for my birthday last year,” Mickey said hurriedly.

Ian sank down and leaned back against the headboard, faint of heart, and Mickey came over to sit at the foot of the bed. They both surveyed the paraphernalia between them.

“You use this?!” Ian said, waving the giant dildo at Mickey.

“Are you even serious right now?” Mickey sighed, “I told you it was a gag gift. No normal human being could shove that monster up their ass, except maybe El Gran Cañon.”

“Who?” Ian said in a daze.

“Oh, this mule that smuggled a shit ton of coke out of Mexico up his ass. Dude’s a legend. Dre would love to know who he is for a multitude of reasons.”

There could not have been a worse time to mention Dre, what with Ian rattled by the adult shop explosion on his bed and the unspoken implications, all the while still gripping a Cold War torpedo. In a fit of pique and peevishness, Ian heaved the dildo towards the kitchen. It didn’t quite get there, due to the weight of it, but fell with a resounding splat before the counter. Ian was surprised it didn’t go smashing through the floor into the unsuspecting apartment below.

“Oh come on! Can we be adults about this please?” Mickey said and went off to retrieve the dildo.

Ian crossed his arms and glared at everything. “You really think we need all this shit?” Ian demanded, “what’s wrong with my dick all of a sudden?!”

“No! No, I don’t think we _need_ this,” Mickey said as he resumed his seat at the foot of the bed. “It’s just, these are the things I like and I used them when I was going solo, so I just thought—” Mickey’s fluster eventually overtook him, “forget it, never mind; it was dumb.”

Ian felt like a heel and stopped Mickey from packing up the things. “Alright, okay, I’m sorry. I freaked out a little. There’s nothing wrong with this; it’s just surprising. I thought maybe you thought—just talk me through this.”

Mickey settled back hesitantly onto the bed and wisely packed away the monster into the duffle bag and put it out of sight. He then adopted all the airs of a suburban housewife hosting a Tupperware party as he prepared to extol the virtues of the toys. “I’m not saying we need anything,” Mickey repeated slowly and firmly. He had been nervous as hell about sharing this with Ian as it was; if he had known it was going to send Ian into some sort of sexual confidence nosedive, he would have abandoned the idea altogether. “It’s just that I like this stuff and I love you, so I figured maybe I could share it with you?”

Mickey paused and picked up a smaller, less godforsaken-looking, ribbed dildo and what appeared to be a small accompanying remote control. “Like with this I figured that I could keep this part,” Mickey said, indicating the vibrator, “and you can have this part,” he said, pressing the remote control into Ian’s hand. “You like the control, right? Maybe we can use it when I’m blowing you,” Mickey suggested and Ian had to admit that he was already intrigued. Ian stared down at the remote and turned it on to the lowest setting. The toy hummed to life in Mickey’s hand, making both men snicker a bit. “It has ten settings,” Mickey continued his sale pitch, “and I’ve only ever used four.”

Ian was pretty much sold on that. There were several more dildo type devices, including a ribbed C-shaped one that Mickey informed him was a prostate massager. “Why do you have this many?” Ian asked.

“I don’t use them all,” Mickey laughed, “There are only like two things I use typically. I just buy one and then I end up seeing something that looks better and I wind up really wanting to try it and I upgrade. You can say I’m buy-curious,” Mickey said lamely and Ian rolled his eyes.

Ian reached for a pair of very authentic looking, silver handcuffs, complete with keys in the lock. Ian held them up and eyed them sceptically. “You bought these?”

“Oh, no, those were a gift,” Mickey said carefully, “from a cop friend of mine. Funny story, it’s kind of how we met and those were the cuffs he used on me after I called him a pig and decked him. Then I realized that I couldn’t afford to get taken in because I was on probation so I…” Mickey wisely trailed off since Ian now had a face like a storm cloud. Mickey coughed self-consciously, “never mind, it’s not that interesting; but yeah, he gave me those. I’ve never used them for anything sexy though.”

“What happened to the cop?” Ian asked tersely, “you’re still in contact with him?”

“Yeah, he’s doing real good actually; made detective and everything. He’s really useful,” Mickey sighed at Ian’s glare, “I don’t know what you want me to do, Ian. You want me to assemble all the guys I’ve ever been with and fuck ‘em in reverse? I can’t undo this shit! Maybe if you’d let a dude know you were coming, I’d have strapped on my iron underwear and stayed pure and untouched. You know the same way you did for me.”

Cowed, Ian dropped his death glare and looked away. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know his jealousy over Mickey’s sexual history was irrational and hypocritical, but it wasn’t like he was the one keeping mementos of his past hook-ups. Ian distracted himself by picking up a black silk pouch and investigating its contents. He pulled out a long string of shiny, silver, metal beads and held them up for inspection and watched as they caught the light.

“What are these, a rosary for giants?” Ian teased and Mickey grinned as he blushed.

“Nah, man, they’re my anal beads. You, um, you shove them up my ass and pull them out real slow,” Mickey said softly and laughed when Ian’s eyes widened. “This is pretty vanilla, run-of-the-mill stuff. You should see the craziness that’s out there.”

Ian could only imagine. He focused on the beads in his hands, fascinated by their coolness and their weight and examined them closely. He rolled a few beads between his fingers before running his finger over down the length of them in slow succession. He heard Mickey’s breath hitch and he smirked slightly when he looked up at his boyfriend.

“This is really turning you on, isn’t it?”

It went without saying. Mickey simply crawled over to Ian and kissed him until Ian flipped him onto his back so he could settle between Mickey’s legs and deepen their kiss. When Ian pulled back, he grinned down at his boyfriend and dangled the string of balls next to his head.

“Anal beads, huh?” Ian mused, “okay… let’s give it a go, but I do what I want,” Ian said as he got up into a kneeling position. He ran his hand slowly up Mickey’s torso, beneath his shirt and rubbed his thumb firmly over Mickey’s nipple. “No getting impatient and telling me to get on you.” Ian shoved Mickey’s shirt up and leaned down to nip and suck at the skin above Mickey’s hip.  He pulled back once more and slowly unbuttoned Mickey’s jeans and shifted to the side so he could tug them off. He pulled off Mickey’s underwear and socks and looked up to see that Mickey had hurriedly yanked off his shirt. He straddled Mickey and began his slow ascent, starting from the top of Mickey’s happy trail and slowly planting kisses up the length of his chest and neck until he was face to face with Mickey once again.

“You’re going to drag this shit out and torture me, aren’t you?” Mickey said, letting out a sigh of longsuffering.

“I’m going to love you,” Ian murmured as he kissed Mickey’s lips softly. “You should be used to this by now.”

Ian sat up and quickly stripped naked, swatting Mickey’s hands away when he attempted to help and hurry things along. He picked up the beads and eyed them analytically. “I guess I have to lube these bad boys, huh?”

“Yes! Yes, you do! A lot,” Mickey said emphatically, making Ian laugh.

Ian shoved the scattered toys into a pile on one side of the bed and reached for the lube and went about preparing the beads. “How many of these can you take?” he asked.

Mickey wetted his lips and squirmed as he watched Ian’s hands glide over the beads. “Half the fun’s finding out.”

Ian snorted and eyed the beads again for a moment and frowned. “You’re going to have to talk me through some of this so I know I’m not fucking up,” he murmured as he stroked Mickey’s thigh and looked back on the pile of toys. He had very little experience using sex aids and he knew how caught up and carried away he and Mickey could get. “Give me a safe word.”

“A what?”

“You know, a word so I’ll know you want to press pause on things.”

“Are you planning on setting me on fire? Besides, I thought you said I wasn’t allowed to say anything.”

“I said you aren’t allowed to hurry me up. That’s an entirely different thing from letting me know if something feels wrong or weird, jackass,” Ian said and slapped Mickey’s thigh. “Now could you please, while we’re still young? Make it weird enough so I won’t confuse it with any of the regular stuff you might say.”

Mickey thought for a second. “Badabing.”

Ian cracked up. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“You seriously want to commit to that?”

“Fuck off; it’s weird enough, isn’t it?”

Ian relented and settled by Mickey’s hip. “Okay, okay.”

“Don’t you get one too?”

“Bananas,” Ian declared before sucking down Mickey’s cock before Mickey could rightly point out how lame he was. He slipped a finger inside Mickey, slicking him lazily as he licked along the length of Mickey’s cock. He sighed at the feel of Mickey’s hand in his hair and slipped another finger inside him while he narrowed his focus to the head of Mickey’s cock. When Mickey relaxed around his fingers, Ian reached for the beads.

“So just…?”

“Slow,” Mickey croaked and he gripped Ian’s hair tightly as he felt the first ball press into him. He shuddered and released a pent-up breath as the bead slipped through his sphincter. He opened his eyes to see that Ian was watching him closely.

“Wild,” Ian said softly and started on the other ball while taking another languid lick of Mickey’s cock as he pushed the second bead inside.

By the fourth, Mickey was a mess. His entire body shook as Ian sucked him off and grew a little bolder with toying with the beads and Mickey as he inserted them. Mickey didn’t know why he was having such a powerful, visceral reaction to play. He had been a nervous wreck since the pool house. It had always been a little nerve wracking taking that duffle bag out of the recesses of his closet to use a toy. The idea of actually taking it outside and bringing it to Ian had left him mortified, but he managed to overcome it. The entire drive over, he kept expecting to be discovered and humiliated. Ian’s possible rejection wasn’t something he could have brought himself to consider. Now that it was happening, he was beside himself. When the next ball popped inside, he squirmed beneath Ian’s touch.

“That’s enough?” Ian asked, “feel okay?” he relaxed when Mickey nodded. “Okay,” Ian said as he sat up, “let’s throw it in reverse.” He kept a firm hand on Mickey’s cock as he gently tugged on the metal ring at the end of the string of beads. He worked the first bead out slowly and watched Mickey’s face and body raptly, taking in every movement.

Mickey’s body arched and he grunted with pleasure as Ian pulled the first ball out. Ian paused and Mickey fell back panting. Ian was loving this. “Does this usually get you off?” he asked Mickey when the man surfaced once again.

“No, not usually; it just sorts of primes the pump, you know?”

“Good to know,” Ian said beneath his breath and watched mesmerized as Mickey’s body relaxed and stretched to release the second bead. Mickey’s body was electrified and by the third and fourth balls, Ian’s motion was slow, smooth and steady. Ian toyed with the last one, keeping his eyes glued on Mickey’s face as he teased the metal ball out partially, before letting it get pulled back in. Mickey was about to crack.

“Close?” Ian asked, though the question was redundant. The pre-come pearling at the tip of Mickey’s cock told him all he needed to know. “Turn over; get on your knees,” he ordered and Mickey readily complied. “You ready for me?” Ian whispered as he teased the last bead out and slipped his fingers inside to gauge Mickey’s looseness. When he thrust into Mickey, the latter almost fell apart.

“Fuck,” Mickey gasped as Ian gripped his hips and rocked forward. There was a burn behind his eyes and odd lump in his throat, and Mickey’s hands twisted in the pillow as he tried to bury his face and his cries—fucking mortifying. His body slammed forward with the force of Ian’s body against his and he knew his stifling the sounds of his pleasure wasn’t going to stand for long. Soon, Ian’s hand was in his hair and his head was being yanked back, and his voice was filling the room. He was on the brink, only for Ian to pause and pull out. Mickey collapsed onto the bed, overly sensitized and relishing the brief break. There was a soft clink of metal against metal that made goose bumps of anticipation prickle his skin.

Ian reached for the handcuffs—a little sceptical about them for a number of reasons—but he wanted to make the effort for Mickey. He dangled them before Mickey’s face. “Should I use these?” he asked and Mickey’s cock twitched at the sight of them in Ian’s hands. Mickey nodded eagerly. Ian opened the cuffs and removed the keys, placing them carefully on the night table. He trailed the restraints down the length of Mickey’s spine, making the latter shiver at the feel of the cool metal against his heated skin. “Are you sure?”

“Fuck, yes…please.”

“What’s the word?”

Mickey sighed, “badabing,” and wriggled impatiently when Ian snickered.

“Dork,” Ian muttered, before bending forward and biting hard into Mickey’s shoulder while he frotted against Mickey’s raised ass. “Give me your hands.”

Mickey placed his hands behind his back and allowed himself a sigh of relief when the cuffs were clapped on. Clearly he was fucked in the head. How could he ever explain the paradoxical freedom he felt whenever Ian restrained him, whenever they were like this and it felt as if Ian was controlling his breathing, his heartbeat and the frissons of raw energy coursing through his body. Those frissons were rippling through him now and his heart was in his throat as Ian pulled at him until he was kowtowed against the pillows. Then suddenly Ian was there again, inside him, surrounding him and filling him to overflowing.

It was weird how many things he could feel: the bite of Ian’s nails into his skin, the burn of the sheets against his knees, the way his thighs strained from holding that position as Ian’s body slapped against his, and the ache of his leaking cock. In that moment he was more than the sum of his parts and well on course for the best orgasm of his life. He babbled incoherently as Ian fucked him and his boyfriend leaned down, trapping Mickey’s cuffed hands between them so he could reach around and stroke Mickey’s cock.

“Fucking love you,” Mickey gasped as Ian’s body cocooned his and his hand worked his cock.

“Tell me what you want,” Ian said urgently, close to coming apart himself, “let me hear you.”

“Fucking wreck—” Mickey stumbled over his words, “fucking wreck me, daddy!”

Another thrust of Ian’s body and Mickey was coming with an impassioned shout with Ian following him soon after. Ian slumped against Mickey’s back, his own chest heaving and his panting audible in the sudden quiet of the room.

“Fucking wild,” Ian breathed and kissed Mickey’s shoulder gently. “Not bad for a first attempt, huh?” he asked, but there wasn’t a sound out of Mickey. “Mick?” Ian prodded gently, but there was no response. “Mickey?!” Ian quickly grabbed the handcuff keys off the night table and freed Mickey’s arms. The giant sigh of relief Mickey released as his arms fell limply to his sides stopped Ian’s burgeoning panic. Mickey was fine, but he was out cold. Ian exhaled his own relief and rolled to the side, and dug the anal beads from under his back. “Can you do that?” he inquired of them, nodding to Mickey’s unconscious form. They only hung limply in his hands. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

* * *

Mickey surfaced briefly a couple hours later to find Ian sitting up in bed, working on his essay, and apparently using Mickey’s ass as a bookstand. He drifted back to sleep. The next time, he awoke properly and he was facing the door while Ian worked quietly behind him. He did a quick mental rundown of the afternoon’s events and groaned silently at his one major fuck up. Ian—being the bastard that he was—was going to take the absolute piss out of him.

Ian knew the moment Mickey had woken up. The deep, steady breathing had stopped and Mickey’s body had twitched and tensed as he surfaced. Ian closed his laptop, put it aside, unleashed his unholiest grin, and snuggled up next to Mickey. He grinned harder when Mickey tensed when Ian slipped his arm around his waist.

“So I guess the million dollar question is: did daddy wreck you?”

“Oh fuck you!” Mickey sprang up while Ian burst out laughing. “Fuck you alright; that was a slip. That was a onetime only thing!” 

“I feel like I got a promotion,” Ian said happily, “is there any more room for advancement in your organization? If I slip you some hard candy, will I get upgraded to granddaddy?” he said with an outrageous wink.  “Oh and ‘daddy’ might be inappropriate in public spaces, so maybe you should call me Wreck-it Ralph instead when we’re around people.”

“So fucking done,” Mickey said from the foot of the bed, “that’s it; I don’t care if you drop a bomb on my ass after this, I’m never saying another fucking word.”

“Oh I’m so sure,” Ian said with a devilish grin and a wink, “like you can stay quiet when daddy goes to work.” He laughed again and dove under the covers as Mickey searched for something to throw.

“I hate everything you choose to be right now.”

Ian tentatively emerged from the covers. “Hey, let me ask you something, how much are you into the cuffs? Like do you need them in particular or do you just like the restraints? Because they’re tight and have no give and I was hoping we could just stick with the ties for stuff like that.” Plus he simply hated the implications of them.

Mickey shrugged dismissively, “it’s cool; the ties are fine.”

“You’re sure? You seemed so into them. We can compromise.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Mickey said before admitting frankly, “it was never about the cuffs.”

Ian returned Mickey’s lopsided smile, but naturally had to go and ruin the moment. “Such a good boy for his daddy.”

“Fuck you, asshole!” Mickey yelled and stomped off to the bathroom.

“Well ain’t that a fine way to talk to your daddy,” Ian said, dipping into his best Appalachian accent, “I have half a mind to take you across my knee, boy!”

“Why are you like this?!” Mickey moaned through the bathroom door and all Ian did was laugh.

* * *

“Shit, look who finally got let out the house,” Dre chuckled when Mickey stepped inside his apartment. “Gingerbread let you out on parole?” he asked. Mickey ignored the teasing though his contented, secretive smile completely gave the game away. Dre didn’t hide his amusement. “Aw, aren’t you cute?”

Mickey paused when he saw the Kevlar vest on Dre’s bed. He could also feel the familiar tension which radiated off his friend when things were not all as they should be. “What’s happening?”

“Drew got robbed last night,” Dre explained, “the stash he was prepping got jacked as well as a fairly sizeable amount of my money.”

“Shit, is he okay?”

“Yeah, Drew’s ignorant most of the time, but he’s learned when to lie down.”

“You know who did it?”

Dre scoffed and sat on the bed, “’course I know who did it, man. Some new blood who thinks he can be the next hot thing at my expense. Now I’m going to have to ride on this fool, retrieve what’s mine and teach him what is,” Dre sighed, “it’s a nice evening too. I should be out doing something that makes me happy. Instead, I’m going to have to come up out of myself and that is a singularly unpleasant experience.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I know Iggy likes to hang out down there, so tell him to stay out of the Yards tonight. Now what can I do you for?”

“So you know I’m not here to fill a prescription,” Mickey shook his head, “of course you do. Who’s been collecting Sal’s shit these past few days?”

“Some greasy punk rock looking motherfuckers,” Dre said succinctly, “some straight Sid and Nancy caricatures, I don’t know. Looks like he’s been partying with them for a few days.”

Mickey sighed, “do you know where?”

Dre lit his cigarette as he took in all the connotations of Mickey’s questions. “Curious and curiouser… Sal’s hiding out, huh? I figured something was going down for him to be partying that hard. I don’t know where he is; I didn’t particularly care. I can always find out.”

Mickey nodded and licked his lips nervously, “I need to ask you something else,” he paused until Dre nodded, “I’ve been distracted since I got out and I, uh, know I haven’t been staying on top of shit as it comes to his prescriptions,” Mickey said. Iggy and Joey had been the ones collecting Sal’s drugs for months now. “I need to know how much he’s dropping on this shit, on average, overall.”

Dre expelled a smoky breath and clicked his tongue. “Now that is a funny question to field. Money is always such a delicate and complicated issue and Salvatore is a very valued customer.”

“Dre—”

“Business is business, Mickey. Is answering that question going to affect my business?”

“I just need to get a handle on things. Do you think I could do anything to get Sal to cut back?”

It was a fair point and Dre conceded it. “On average, Sal might spend around three grand a week, more if he’s stressed out or hosting friends, you know, but yeah, three thousand seems to be a fair weekly amount.”

Mickey was floored. “Three thousand? Three thousand?! Did it escalate while I was in jail?!”

Dre shook his head, “it’s been escalating for years, Mickey. I know you thought you were, but you’ve never been the only person he’s used as a courier. He’s an addict; this is what addicts do. He’s been using since before you were born. Addicts build a tolerance; they always need more to achieve the same high. That’s what happens when you start chasing the dragon, baby. Eventually, no matter how high functioning you are as an addict, it’s going to start deteriorating.”

“He can’t fucking afford a three grand a week habit!” Mickey cried, “he’s not Tony Montana. He’s stealing from his fucking wife now!” Mickey said and Dre shrugged and took another drag of his cigarette. Mickey smacked his head against the wall. He had fucked up; he had fucked up so badly. The implications of this kind of spending and drug abuse spun through his head. He needed to get a handle on things; he needed to get a handle on things now. “Three grand,” Mickey muttered in a daze, “he’s using that much? On himself?” he said and turned to Dre, “he never seemed that bad. He’s not that bad, I mean—”

Dre sighed, saddened by the lost look on this friend’s face. “Yes he is; he is that bad, Mick. I’ve been trying to tell you. You just don’t see it because you have a seriously fucked up standard for ‘normal and a fuckton of denial.’”

Mickey shook his head. There had to be a mistake somewhere. He had fucked up spending too much time inside the bubble, but this was just unbelievable. Things could not be this bad.

* * *

As it turned out, there was no need for Dre to track down the errant capo. Mickey would return to the pool house to find that Sal had returned, apparently having slunk in under the cover of night while Linda was on duty in the emergency room. Despite his need to hide for a few days, Sal had the same issue Mickey did—the inevitable pull of the only life he knew as well as a need to the creature comforts of home.

Mickey hated that he was awash with relief at the sight of the man, but it was exactly what he felt. He carefully walked to the couch where Sal sat slumped and staring at the blank TV screen. The older man looked unkempt and the worse for wear, which was unlike Sal, who was always paranoid about looking the best he could.

“Sal?”

Sal jolted at the sound of his name, but relaxed when he saw it was Mickey. “Oh, where the hell have you been? You got a new address lately?”

“Where the hell have I been? Where the hell have _you_ been? We had shit to run and you weren’t here.”

“Ah, I knew you could handle it,” Sal said with a wave of his hand. “Just needed to get away for a few days. Linda, you know, fucking bitch was on the rag; makes life unbearable.”

“So… everything okay now?” Mickey asked tentatively as he sat next to his boss.

Sal grinned and patted Mickey on the cheek with effective reassurance, even though his eyes were a little unfocused and he definitely needed a bath. “Everything is beautiful, just like you. What, you got worried because I skipped out for a few days? I called, didn’t I? You can stop shitting yourself, because I’m back now,” he joked and shoved Mickey’s head playfully, “now I’m gonna go shower, because I feel like a fucking sewer.”

Mickey nodded and watched as Sal shambled off. Either things weren’t that bad or he really had been delusional for too long. One way or another, he definitely needed to find out.

* * *

“Missed me?” Sal asked Ian after they had come back downstairs and sat on the couch. It had not been the most touching or successful reunion. Ian’s heart had not grown fonder in Sal’s absence and not only had he struggled to perform, he hadn’t really tried to cover for it. Sal had done the job for him and assumed Ian’s struggle was out of anger over Sal’s disappearing act. Ian had simply gone with it.

“Of course I did,” Ian sighed and pulled out a folder full of tutorials. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed at you,” he tacked on, and wondered for how long he could milk that particular excuse. One of the papers caught his eye and he pulled it out. It was one of his graded accounting tutorials he had gotten back from his professor. Mickey had apparently stolen a gold star sticker from his niece, had stuck it next to the grade and had scrawled the charming message of _“you don’t totally suck”_ beneath it—the idiot.

“What’s he like?” Sal asked and poured a couple fingers of bourbon into his tumbler.

“What’s who like?” Ian asked distractedly.

“The fucker who puts that smile on your face.”

Ian tensed but quickly played it off with a shuffle of his papers. “Jesus, Sal, don’t start this shit again. The paranoia is exhausting.”

“You think I’m stupid?” Sal growled.

“I don’t know, are you?!” Ian snapped and it was only his reflexes that saved him as Sal hurled the bourbon bottle straight at his head. The bottle smashed into the floor behind the couch and before Ian could even straighten up, Sal was on him—faster and stronger than Ian would have ever given him credit for.

Sal’s hands closed around Ian’s throat as his knee dug into Ian’s stomach. Ian choked and flailed, caught completely off guard and panicking as Sal’s fingers crushed into his throat. Sal was not joking; his eyes blazed and he bared his teeth and Ian felt flattened by the sheer weight and force of his attacker.

“You think I don’t know?!” Sal roared, “you think I’m a fucking idiot?!”

A quick, hard punch to the throat proved devastating for the raging man, and he clutched at his throat and rolled off Ian to fall heavily to the floor. Ian heaved and coughed, trying to fight down some air into his lungs, and rubbed at his throat. He sat up and glared down at the man writhing on the ground trying to breathe.

“What the fuck did I say would happen if you put your hands on me?!” Ian rasped and reached for Sal, intent on doing some permanent damage.

“Gallagher!” a voice cracked like a whip, freezing Ian, and he looked up to see Jaime framed at the entrance to the kitchen, with Iggy coming up behind him.  Ian sprang to his feet and quickly backed away from Sal, uncertain about how the brothers would react; Jaime in particular.

“He was choking me,” Ian said plaintively and took another cautious step back when Jaime came closer. “I had to protect myself!”

Jaime didn’t know what the fuck he’d just stepped into. He had opened the basement door just in time to hear Sal screaming his head off. He and Iggy had rushed into the living room only to see Ian drop Sal like a bad habit and now he didn’t know what to do. Jaime stared down at Sal, who was still crumpled on the floor, trying his best to choke out some words. He didn’t know if Sal wanted him to help him out or to murder Ian.

“He was choking me,” Ian repeated, growing genuinely afraid that he had crossed a line of no return.

“Iggy, take him home,” Jaime ordered his younger brother. If he got Ian out of there before Sal could form words, maybe he’d have plausible deniability about not knowing that Sal actually wanted to kill Ian. Iggy nodded and quickly scooped up Ian’s bag and papers and hustled the ashen-faced young man out the door.

Jaime was still frozen as he looked at Sal struggling on the floor. He couldn’t wrap his mind around Ian taking him down like that. Sal was a juggernaut, nigh unstoppable once he got into one of his rages. It felt jarring and improbable that he could get laid out like that, especially at the height of one of his violent tirades. Sal was indestructible and to accept that the sputtering old man on the floor was also Sal was a paradigm shift that was causing Jaime to short circuit.

“Fucking help me,” Sal croaked at last and shook Jaime out of his stupor. Jaime rushed to his aid, but couldn’t help but wonder just what the fuck was the matter with his boss.

* * *

As he sped away with Ian from the house, Iggy Milkovich was contemplating the same thing. He gave Ian a sidelong glance and wondered if there was anything to the whole Clarke Kent/Superman dynamic because how the hell had Ian dropped Sal?

“Don’t tell Mickey,” Ian said softly, surprising Iggy. The more Ian’s blood cooled, the more he wondered about just how badly he had just fucked up. He tried to push that thought out of his head. He had been defending himself; if there was any fault here, it was Sal’s. But that was neither here nor there. If Mickey found out that would be the end of everything. As it stood, he didn’t know if Mickey would go off at him, which would be awful, or go after Sal, which would be worse. Either way, both roads led to them being over for good and Mickey possibly doing something stupid and getting hurt.

Iggy hadn’t even gotten around to thinking of how Mickey would take this news. Shit, his brother would lose his fucking mind. “Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Iggy agreed but then glanced pointedly at Ian’s neck. “Dude, are you okay? How are you going to explain that shit?”

Ian rubbed at the contusion around his throat. Clearly he was going to have to dodge Mickey for a few days while he healed up and tried to get a handle on things. Fuck—what the hell had just happened?

* * *

He should have known that avoiding Mickey wouldn’t have been that difficult a task. Mickey had been distracted when Ian called him, and appeared to be in Hardy Boy mode as he investigated only god knows what. Ian had told Mickey of his plans to crash with Alex for a few days to study for one of his finals—something he genuinely ought to do after he read his friend the Riot Act—and Mickey had readily agreed, already deeply absorbed in his own mystery. Alex was going to lose her shit when she saw him.

He prepared to call her, only to be derailed by the familiar sight of a town car pulling up across the street. Ian’s heart immediately started pounding and almost ruptured when he saw Sal and Jaime exit the vehicle. He hadn’t spoken to Sal or any of the other Milkovich brothers since the incident the day before, and he had no clue what was in store. It seemed like less than a minute before there was a knock on his door. Ian steeled himself and opened it.

He looked down coolly at Sal, trying his best to hide his jittery nerves. Jaime stood a little distance away, watching Ian and his boss carefully, but seemingly devoid of murderous intent. Sal looked at the bruising around Ian’s neck and flinched, then he glanced up at the hardened green eyes and visibly flinched again.

“May I come in, please?” Sal said mutedly, looking as humbled and downtrodden as a man like him could manage.

Ian hesitated and glanced at Jaime again. To his surprise, Jaime nodded at him, giving him another of those meaningful Milkovich looks that said so much in a fleeting glance. Ian wasn’t sure if he quite bought that Jaime would be on his side if he had to defend himself again, but he decided to take the chance. He stepped aside and let Sal in, but left the door slightly ajar. He was unprepared for what happened next and stood horrified as Sal burst into tears.

“Mi dispiace tanto,” Sal sobbed as he sank to his knees before a bewildered Ian. “I’m so sorry; I’m so fucking sorry. I don’t—I can’t—” he reached for Ian, but the young man stepped out of reach.

“Are you joking? You tried to kill me!”

“No, never; I would never—”

“How are you going to tell me no? I was there!” Ian said pointing to his neck, “you lost your fucking mind!”

“You don’t understand,” Sal said shakily before bursting into tears again, “it all just spun out of control. I wasn’t myself, everything just got on top of me. I would never, Ian. I would never,” Sal blubbered, barely coherent, and reached for Ian again. The young man grimaced as Sal hugged his waist and buried his face against his hip. Ian looked back at the door and wondered what it would take for Jaime to come and get his mess of a boss to spare them all this horrible awkwardness.

“It all just got away from me,” Sal started again, this time a bit more quietly and calmly as he stayed on his knees and kept hugging Ian close. “I can see it sometimes, when the monster gets out. I try to keep him in and I fail. I see myself acting like this monster and I know everything is wrong, but it just spins out of my control,” as Sal spoke, the words chilled Ian, not because they made Sal sound any scarier, but because of how familiar they were and the feelings they described. “It’s different when I’m around you, amore mio; you tame me. The drugs help too, but I took too much; I was out of control. I never want to hurt you; it will never happen again.”

“Maybe you should talk to someone, Sal,” Ian suggested and patted the man’s back. “About these feelings and the drugs and everything; it really helps sometimes,” he added sincerely, but Sal shook his head.

“I can’t do a thing like that. People like me can’t talk to anyone about anything,” Sal said and looked up at Ian, “but it’s better with you,” he insisted, “you make me better. You can save me.”

Whether or not that was true, Ian had already committed himself wholeheartedly to saving another gangster, so Sal was shit out of luck on that front. Still, he nodded and patted Sal’s head soothingly, because despite Sal increasingly losing his marbles, Ian wasn’t going anywhere unless Mickey was coming with him. So Ian Gallagher was stuck with a clinging, ticking time bomb while he worked to liberate Mickey. Clearly he needed to work that much faster because who wants to be near a bomb that was bound to go off?


	24. A Tale of Two Mickeys

Mickey finished warming his Hot Pockets just in time for Ian to come downstairs. It had been a week since they had seen each other, with Ian studying with Alex, and Mickey using the time to dig further into Sal’s bad habits. What he had found so far had been worrying, but it was forgotten the moment the second he set eyes on Ian and his bright smile. He hadn’t spent much time at the pool house during the past week, but made sure to return when he learned that Sal had summoned Ian there once again. How was it possible to miss someone so much after just a few days? Still, he could see the teasing glint in Ian’s eyes and Mickey narrowed his own in suspicion.

“Don’t,” he warned Ian as his boyfriend drew abreast of him and his smile turned unholy.

Ian was undeterred and sang softly into Mickey’s ear as he headed to the fridge, “I love it when you call me big poppa.”

“I will fucking stab you with this spork,” Mickey threatened but Ian only laughed as he poured out his cereal. “Are you ever going to let that shit go?!”

“Can’t… won’t,” Ian said gleefully and poured his milk, “I wait breathlessly for the next time I get you to say it again.”

Mickey shook his head and looked heavenward, but before he could menace Ian with more kitchen utensils, Mandy swanned into the kitchen, yawning widely, and clad only in her panties and a slouchy sweater. She promptly stole Ian’s bowl of cereal and slid onto one of the stools at the kitchen island.

“What’s going on, losers?”

“Not breakfast, apparently,” Ian groused, “is this a prison thing, stealing someone’s food?”

“Are you kidding? That would get you stabbed,” Mandy informed him, “besides, I didn’t steal your food. I took it.”

“Took my bed too,” Mickey also grumbled at her, “came home last night and bitch was in my bed and wouldn’t get out.”

“It’s not like you live here anymore. Your ass only showed up because gingersnap did,” Mandy retorted and shovelled another spoonful of cereal into her mouth. “Besides, it’s not like I have a room here anymore either,” she stared pointedly at Ian, “even if Sal surrendered it, it would still smell like Bengay and sadness in there.”

“Most of the sadness is me,” Ian admitted before turning an incredulous eye on Mandy who was making short work of his cereal, “but, ah, explain the difference between stealing and taking, please.”

Mandy was quite willing to enlighten his darkness. “Stealing is robbing someone’s shit without their knowledge, doing it undercover or whatever. Taking, on the other hand, is straight up ganking someone’s shit right in front of them. If they can stop you and defend their crap, good for them. If not, then what, bitch, what?!”

Mickey cracked up and almost choked on his food. Ian’s face—all slack-jawed and arched brows—was priceless. He nodded to the stupefied man. “Can you tell she’s fresh out of lockup? But she’s right though.”

Ian snorted, but immediately tested his newfound knowledge by grabbing Mickey’s second Hot Pocket and slowly and deliberately taking a huge bite out of it. Mickey was not amused.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t corrupt him by association anymore than he has been already,” Mickey told his sister. Before Mandy or Ian could reply, the front door opened and the rest of the Milkovich brothers, sans Jaime, strolled in. 

“What’s with the coffee klatch?” Iggy asked as he and his brothers invaded the kitchen in search of their own breakfasts.

“Ian just learned about the fine line between taking and stealing, and he’s already putting it into practice,” Mandy told her brothers proudly, while Ian toasted her with a half-eaten Hot Pocket.

“One of us, one of us,” Iggy chanted, gleefully needling Mickey as Jaime finally came in.

“Hot Pockets and cereal?” Jaime dripped disdainfully at his younger siblings, “no one knows how to crack an egg in this house? And why can you never put some fucking pants on?” he asked his sister.

Mandy snorted rudely, “why? Everyone here is either a brother or a homo, and in some cases, all of the above,” she laughed and blew Mickey a kiss when he flipped her off.

The group then fell into a lively discussion about stealing, taking, and other grey area “non-crimes,” as the Milkoviches regarded them. Ian told of the daring heists he and his family had pulled, and the Milkoviches argued over their categorization and sorted them accordingly. Ian’s stealing pizza and lifting milk and bread off the dairy truck? Non-crime—for those were simply survival hustles. Breaking into some college’s robotics lab with Lip to steal parts? Crime and a super impressive one to boot.

Ian was having the best time. For a while it was like being home again during a time when the Gallaghers would eat together and have the most ridiculous debates and discussions. He felt completely relaxed with the entire group for the first time in ages. He was almost lulled into believing that this was his new normal, being open and at ease with Mickey and his family, until reality plodded into the kitchen, bleary eyed and heavy footed. A tense, awkward silence immediately fell over the group.

“What the hell is all this noise about?” Sal muttered as his eyes shifted from one face to another.

“Nothing, we were just talking about nonsense,” Mickey answered. “You have any instructions for us today?”

It was glaringly obvious that his presence was a heavy dampener and Sal shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling alien and isolated from the young group. Not a single one of them was looking at him right. Mandy glared hotly at him, the way she always did when she wasn’t rolling her eyes—a miserable bitch from the womb. The older Milkovich boys were still having trouble meeting his eyes, still rattled by his graceless tumble from infallibility after the incident with Ian. Ian leaned against the fridge, clearly discomfited by the interruption since he had been integrating so well with his contemporaries. Sal couldn’t even summon the energy to be offended by them, but even his Mickey was looking at him funny. Mickey was the only one who could look him in the eye, besides his sister, but there was concern, suspicion and annoyance in the look and it heightened the wretchedness Sal felt.

He felt old, shabby and unwanted in the face of them, and Sal didn’t know if he should retreat with his tail between his legs or peevishly impose his presence on them. Eventually, he shook his head at Mickey’s inquiry. “Do whatever the fuck you usually do; I got nothing,” he grumbled before shambling to the fridge, grabbing some leftover pasta and warming it quickly; all while the heavy, uncomfortable silence persisted. He finally escaped the kitchen and it was like high school all over again. The only thing missing from the moment was the burst of derisive laughter to follow in his wake. Unlike high school, no one was laughing here; at least, Sal mused bitterly, not on the outside.

* * *

They had pulled into their little dead-end road after leaving the pool house. Mickey had barely had time to set the parking brake before Ian had climbed into the backseat and was yanking Mickey back there with him. Mickey hissed at his boyfriend to mind the suit, but Ian simply tugged him down and smothered Mickey’s fussiness with a kiss. When Ian finally let him up for air, Mickey had gone soft and starry-eyed and he smiled down at Ian as he sat astride him.

“Missed me?” Ian grinned up at him and shifted and settled under Mickey’s weight.

Mickey scoffed, “it was only a week.”

Ian used his finger to slowly work Mickey’s tie out of his vest. “That’s not an answer,” Ian said softly as he stroked Mickey’s thigh.

“I might have thought about you once or twice.”

“Hmm.” Ian moved from Mickey’s thigh to run his hand over Mickey’s crotch. “Were you obedient?”

Mickey sighed noisily and squirmed against the warmth of Ian’s hand. “I don’t know where you get this self-denial shit.”

“Typical coming from the man with the sex factory in a duffle bag,” Ian said, “and again, that’s not an answer.”

“Yes,” Mickey relented. “I didn’t do shit all week… happy?”

“Ecstatic; let me show you,” Ian said and began to unzip Mickey’s pants, but Mickey stopped him.

“Wait, hang on a minute. I need to talk to you,” Mickey said and Ian paused to look up at him curiously, “Sal… has he been acting weird to you lately?”

Ian’s heart thumped in his chest but he was careful to keep his expression neutral. He shrugged and toyed with Mickey’s tie. “Sal’s always weird. He’s kind of that paradox with unpredictability being his only constant, you know?” he joked. “Why?”

Mickey gnawed his lower lip and ran a hand over his face. “He’s been hitting the nose candy harder than I thought—a lot harder,” Mickey sighed, “and doing some shady shit. I just—look, I don’t want him wilding out on you, alright? Just watch him and try to stay out of reach? I don’t even know anymore.”

“Don’t worry about it. I can handle Sal.”

“You don’t understand; when he flips out and really gets going, he can be unstoppable,” Mickey said softly and Ian frowned and reached up to soothe away the apprehension etched into Mickey’s face.

“Okay, so say he’s an unstoppable force. I’ll just have to be an immovable object. Do you know what happens when an unstoppable force meets and immovable object?”

“What?”

“I think one of them is going to turn out to be wrong. In this case, I’d place my bets on the twenty-one year old, ex-army immovable object as opposed to the sixty year old, drug-addicted ‘unstoppable’ force,” Ian said confidently. Mickey did not seem as convinced.

“Couldn’t they just end up destroying each other though?”

“Holy shit, Mickey, it is way too early in the morning for you to be this macabre,” Ian tugged on Mickey’s tie to pull him down, “do you want to get off or has this week been too easy on you?”

“Ian…”

Ian sighed and relented. He pulled Mickey flat on top of him and stroked his back. “I can handle Sal, I swear, but yes I will watch him and stay out of his way to the best of my ability, okay?” Ian asked and Mickey finally nodded.

“Let me know if he does anything, alright?”

“Yeah sure,” Ian said quickly, eager to get Mickey’s mind away from Sal and onto less stressful and mood-killing things, “can we please take our pants off now?”

Mickey laughed and didn’t protest when Ian reached for his zipper again.

* * *

Sal seemed to be struggling hard with the decision as to whether or not to get into the front passenger seat. Mickey leaned on the steering wheel and watched with detached curiosity as Sal stood just inside the open door of the Escalade and stared nervously at the seat. He wondered if Sal was high. To be fair, lately Sal couldn’t so much as rub his nose without Mickey wondering if he was stoned off his rocker. Eventually, Mickey tired of Sal’s weird waffling, and his impatience got the better of him.

“While I’m still young, Sal.”

“Fuck off,” Sal said grumpily, but finally took a breath and heaved himself inside the car. He sat with a pained grunt and then squirmed uncomfortably in the seat.

Mickey started the car and ignored the implications of Sal’s evidently very sore ass. He definitely did not want to know and, deep down, he knew he wouldn’t like the answer. Still, next to Mickey, Sal’s misery was unrelenting and Mickey had to at least ask. “Everything okay over there?”

“Fine, mind your business.”

Mickey briefly released the wheel to raise his hands in mock surrender, grateful for the pass. He kept driving and Sal kept squirming. When they came to a stop at a light, Sal could not keep his peace anymore and hesitantly broached a disturbing subject.

“Hey, you ever heard of, ah, these things called anal beads?”

It was a good thing they had stopped at the light, because Mickey would have probably wrapped the Escalade around a pole. He gave Sal a sidelong glance and spoke slowly and softly. “Anal beads?”

“Yeah, you know, they’re these ball things on a fucking string; I don’t know. You take them and shove them up your—”

“I know what they are, Sal!” Mickey interrupted quickly, “I mean, I run a whorehouse; I know. Why are **_you_** asking me about them?”

Sal shifted again, clearly embarrassed and Mickey really didn’t want to know, but now he had to know. No way was this a simple coincidence. When Sal spoke again, Mickey felt his gut twist. “Lately Ian’s been wanting to try some new things. Spice things up and all.”

“This just started?” Mickey asked, though he already knew the answer and he tightened his grip on the wheel when his boss nodded.

“I mean, is that a normal thing? Balls and vibrators and all that shit. It’s not normal, is it?”

That was rich coming from a man who was more powder and pills than flesh and blood at that point, Mickey thought to himself. “Why, what’s so wrong with them?”

“I understand whores using that kind of shit, but when you’re actually with someone, doesn’t all that frou-frou just create distance?”

What nonsense was this now? Mickey looked at Sal askance as he tried to work out what the man was on about. “I thought Gallagher was Marilyn Munroe, so it fits then doesn’t it? Besides, regular people use that shit too, not just working girls. Don’t be so closed-minded; it makes you old.”

Sal snorted as he stared ahead, “the fuck do you know about it? You’re twelve. Being old makes you old. Don’t get me wrong, it’s proven to be an interesting and pleasurable diversion, though I feel it the next day,” Sal said and wriggled again in his discomfort. “It’s just…he continues to elude me,” he said cryptically, “and with this new thing and the kissing phobia—”

“What kissing phobia? Who has a kissing phobia? Gallagher?”

“Learned about it around New Year’s—” Sal admitted, “—was almost in tears when he told me. He said it makes him feel like he’s drowning; some childhood shit,” Sal shrugged. “‘It’s not about you, it’s me,’ he says; that old song and dance.”

“What, you didn’t believe him?”

“I looked it up; it’s a real thing, but everything always feels like an excuse with him though.”

Mickey glanced nervously at his boss. “Truth be told, I’m probably as into the whole making out thing as Gallagher is, and a lot of my girls have a strict no kissing policy.”

Sal was unimpressed. “Fucking kids these days don’t know shit about romance. A good kiss—no, listen to me—a good kiss is the start of everything. It gets the fire going—”

“Ugh, please, I just ate lunch.”

“Stop being a little shit. How do you kids do this? How do you just skip the romance, the slow build? How do you just…go?!”

“You get your dick out and find some friction. Not everybody has time or patience for all that wind up.”

“Maybe,” Sal said quietly, “but he still feels so elusive. You like him don’t you?” Sal asked suddenly and Mickey had to fight hard to keep his face blank.

“Yeah, Gallagher’s alright.”

“He fucking around on me?”

Mickey looked over at Sal and suppressed the twinge of guilt that surfaced. Fuck it all; he and Ian deserved beautiful things too. “Hand to god, I’ve never seen him with another man,” Mickey said sincerely.

“Would you tell me if he was?”

“I swear to you, if I saw him with another dude, I’d handle it myself.”

Sal smiled, then chuckled and patted Mickey’s cheek in gratitude and affection. “My fucking prince.”

* * *

Ian hated everything. He hated the school system, he hated that he was a part of it and contributing to the “great evil of the tertiary education scheme” as Frank would say. Mostly he hated mankind and its relentless need to analyze and understand all the mysteries and workings of the universe. Simply put, Introduction to Philosophy could just kiss his entire ass. He smacked his head against his textbook as he sat at his small study table and took a much needed break. 

He perked up considerably when he saw the Escalade parking across the street. He watched as Mickey climbed out, his boyfriend’s face obscured by his camo jacket. Ian’s face lit up; a casually dressed Mickey usually meant he was done with his mob persona for the day. Ian was so happy and relieved to see him, he had to stop himself from being completely embarrassing and going to meet Mickey at the elevator. Instead, he did something equally mortifying but less noticeable and tried to strike his best come hither pose. Naturally, Mickey barged in while he was in between two poses and looked ridiculous. Fortunately, Mickey didn’t seem to notice.

“Hey, what are you doing here so early?” Ian asked as he went to Mickey to grab him. Mickey immediately stepped back out of reach.

“No, fuck you! Where is my shit?!” Mickey snapped before stomping off towards the closet, leaving a startled Ian in his wake.

Surprised, pissed off and concerned by the unwarranted aggression, Ian quickly cycled through the possibilities even as he grabbed Mickey’s arm and turned him around. His heart starting pounding as Mickey glared up at him and he wondered if the incident with Sal had been discovered. He decided to bluff it out. “What the fuck is up your ass?!”

“It’s not about what’s up my ass; it’s about what’s up Sal’s!” Mickey shouted back before wincing a little. In that moment, he hated Ian for making him say that sentence. “‘Do you know what anal beads are? Ian wanted to spice things up a little.’ You’ve been using my toys with goddamned fucking Sal?!”

Ian blinked at Mickey nonplussed while the man raged at him. When Mickey uttered the last sentence, the mystery was revealed and Ian was left equal parts relieved, amused and horrified.

“Oh my god, he discusses his sex life with you!” Ian gasped, “that’s fucking terrible. What kind of fucked up relationship do you two even have?! Are there absolutely no boundaries there?”

Mickey stared at Ian incredulously. “You’re missing the fucking point, Gallagher!”

Ian rolled his eyes, “yeah, I’m totally going to take your toys and skip with them to Sal’s house for sexy times, because I’m a fucking mental patient,” Ian scoffed then paused. “Alright, so I was a mental patient for a very short time, but that shouldn’t be held against me,” he said lightly. “No, I didn’t use your toys—gross. I bought a couple things to use with Sal.”

“Like that’s any fucking better?!” Mickey thundered. “You think I shared this shit with you so you can go get Sal’s fucking rocks off?!”

Ian pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Okay, first of all, I know that sharing your toys with me was a big deal for you, but you are by no means the first or only man to enjoy shoving a silicone dick up his ass.” He noticed Mickey gearing up to retort and shut him down quickly, “and second of all, I didn’t want to do that, alright, but I didn’t have much of a choice. You gave me the idea and it was a lifesaver.”

Mickey’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Ian sighed heavily. It was humiliating and he had hoped to never bring this up to another human being besides Alex. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms defensively. “I’ve been having some difficulties,” he mumbled underneath his breath.

“Huh?”

“I’ve been having some difficulties,” Ian gritted out, “…sexually.”

In an unthinking moment, Mickey looked down at Ian’s crotch as if that would clear up his confusion. He looked back up at a now red-faced Ian. “No you haven’t.”

“Not with you, idiot, obviously,” Ian groaned. “I’ve been having difficulties with Sal, and for a while now. I’ve sort of been faking my way through it mostly, but it’s been getting harder… and not in a good way. When you showed me your toys, it gave me the idea to use them with him. The toys work and I don’t have to stick my dick in him, so… yeah.”

Mickey was silent. He needed a minute to take it all in. He tugged on the sleeves of his jacket and cleared his throat. “So, uh, what’s the problem exactly?”

Ian looked down at him coolly. “Fuck you, you know exactly what the goddamned problem is, Mickey! ‘Let’s go to the planetarium and fuck under the stars!’” Ian said, his voice high-pitched and mocking as Mickey vainly tried to hide his smile, “you’re a fucking menace.”

Mickey sputtered with painfully fake affront, “Oh so this is my fault?” he asked as he slipped off his jacket.

“Again, fuck you! Ninety-nine percent of the time I’m more than willing to stroke your ego, but not today and not for this!” Ian groused before he stepped around Mickey and headed for the kitchen. Mickey quickly hung up his jacket in the closet and climbed out of his shoes before going after the fuming redhead.

“Come on, are you seriously that upset that you can’t get it up for Sal? You really feel this is a hit against your sexual prowess or something? Is that why you were so freaked out about the toys?” Mickey asked intuitively and Ian’s answering glare confirmed his suspicions. “You’re insane,” Mickey laughed and tugged on the hem of Ian’s shirt. “You’re not hot for him; nothing you can do about it. You can’t even blame Sal for it; it is what it is.”

“You’re a gay man that fucks women,” Ian accused.

“Sounds so hateful when you say it like that,” Mickey teased, “and I explained that. It’s a survival adaptation.”

“Well so was this and it’s been callously taken away! So apparently I’m monogamous now and I’m just stuck with your ass,” Ian lamented.

“A fate worse than death, I bet,” Mickey snorted, “but who’s to say; maybe I’m all ruined too,” he whispered and pulled Ian closer.

Ian wasn’t giving over right away and gazed down at Mickey, pouting. “You yelled at me.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m a dick.”

“You’re an ass,” Ian muttered and Mickey only shrugged and gave him a lopsided grin. Mickey tugged on his shirt again and raised an enquiring eyebrow, asking for a kiss. Ian did give in then and stroked Mickey’s face as he closed the distance between them. Mickey eagerly returned the kiss and sighed contentedly when Ian pressed closer and deepened it. It was slow and searching, and Ian made sure to savour it since it was one of the rare times Mickey wasn’t impatiently demanding they start shedding clothes and move towards the bed.

Mickey was savouring the kiss too, only to pull away suddenly knowing full well Ian wasn’t going to let him go anywhere. True to form, Ian fisted his hand in Mickey’s T-shirt and yanked him back—the aggression of the move belying the tenderness of the kiss that resumed. When Ian finally pulled back, Mickey didn’t have his usual case of the soft and fuzzies. Instead, Mickey looked smug and faintly triumphant. It took Ian a moment to figure that out.

“He told you about the kissing thing too, didn’t he?” Ian said with a sigh.

“I had no idea I was subjecting you to that kind of torture,” Mickey said, his eyes huge and earnest, “what you’ve been suffering all this time.”

“I fucking hate you. You and Sal are gross. I stick my dick in the worst people,” Ian said drily and left Mickey in the kitchen.

“Is there a benefit for people like you? Where do I send a check? Tell me how to help you, Ian!”

“You can fuck right off,” Ian demanded but burst out laughing anyway when Mickey tackled him onto the bed.

* * *

“Who is Diogenes?” Mickey asked as he lay in bed and looked through Ian’s notes.

Ian yawned and scooted closer, pressing his naked body against Mickey’s and trying unsuccessfully to steal a peek at his notes. “What’s my memory prompt?”

Mickey flipped back in the notebook and snorted, “asshole with the lamp.”

“Oh yeah, Diogenes was the cynic who valued virtuous actions over rhetoric. He practised pretty extreme frugality and annoyed a shit-ton of people.”

“What’s the deal with the lamp?”

“He’d walk around in broad daylight with a lamp claiming to be looking for an honest man,” Ian answered and laughed at Mickey’s sceptical look.

“Well, did he find any?”

“I think the whole point of the exercise was to highlight that there weren’t any in the first place,” Ian said, “told you, he was kind of an asshole. He probably needed to get laid every once in a while. My world view always improves dramatically after I come inside you.”

“Ugh! Jesus Christ, Ian!” Mickey covered his face with the notebook and groaned, “why do you always say shit like this?!”

“Because you get all embarrassed and turn red and it’s the greatest thing in the world,” Ian admitted readily. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life figuring out ways to make you blush. Of course, thanks to diminishing returns, I’ll probably end up having to publicly smack you in the face with my dick one day.”

“I can already feel the horror.” Mickey tossed Ian’s book onto the night table and settled back against the pillows.  “Sounds like you’re ready for your exam though.”

“Maybe, the essay questions always scare me. The meds mess up my concentration sometimes, so it’s hard keeping my focus for long periods with things like this. I actually fell asleep for a few minutes in the middle of a Lit exam once. At least I’ll have Alex in this exam; she’ll jab me if it happens. Sometimes if I have really long lecture, I’ll use my phone’s vibration to make sure I stay up.”

“Jesus, the shit you go through sometimes,” Mickey murmured. “You’ll be okay though,” he reassured Ian, “you were freaking out last semester and you did great.”

“I did okay,” Ian corrected with a laugh before they both quieted. Ian watched as Mickey’s eyes drifted closed. He could tell Mickey was thinking as opposed to sleeping because the furrow in Mickey’s brow was growing deeper and deeper. Ian pressed his thumb against it and attempted to smooth Mickey’s forehead. “Keep that up and you’re going to look like a freaking Klingon by the time you’re thirty.”

Mickey grinned as Ian rubbed between his eyes, “that doesn’t get you going? Worf was hot as fuck.”

“You would have a thing for the big, black dude in the show, wouldn’t you?”

“Lemme guess, you were hot for Picard?”

“He was wise and nurturing and he owned his baldness unlike some other captains I could mention!” Ian ignored the rude, answering snort and nudged Mickey, “so what’s going on?”

Mickey sighed and rolled onto his back before looking over at Ian. The conflict over whether or not to share his concerns was clear on his face. Eventually though, he started talking. “I’m fucking up,” he admitted, “I don’t know what the fuck is happening anymore.”

“What are you even talking about? You’re the one doing everything and keeping all the balls in the air.”

“That’s just it; I’m dropping them. It’s been different since I got out of the clink. I haven’t been keeping on top of Sal, I haven’t been watching the books… Sal’s habit is out of control and he’s just taking money from everywhere and leaving his prints all over it—no finesse at all, no attempts to cover. It’s my job to keep him in line. It’s been what, six months since I’ve been out? What the fuck have I been doing?!”

“Well me, for one,” Ian said drily, “but you’ve been doing way too much. It shouldn’t be your job to keep a grown man, three times your age, in line. You shouldn’t be doing and thinking about any of this shit—nothing else but the three C’s.”

Mickey arched his brow, “what the fuck are the three C’s?”

“Carrot top,” Ian said, pointing to himself, “cars and Canada; specifically in that order.”

Mickey laughed, “you’re an idiot. Maybe that’s the problem though,” he said and traced the outline of Ian’s jaw with his thumb, “that’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

Ian shifted until he was lying stretched out on top of Mickey, his face hovering over his boyfriend’s. “That is the opposite of a problem,” he said softly before his tone became serious. “You shouldn’t have to worry over living your life instead of running Sal’s and cleaning up his shit. You’re meant for so much better than this and better than Sal. Maybe you’re just starting to realize that,” Ian suggested, “and maybe you’ve been doing this too long.”

“Are you implying I’m getting too old for this shit?” Mickey joked and Ian sighed internally, knowing that his hint wasn’t soaking in. He was surprised when Mickey made a sad confession. “He doesn’t trust me anymore,” Mickey said as he focused on Ian’s collarbone. “He’s been doing all this shit without me: making moves, ordering hits, getting his own supplies; all of this without consulting me and he’s never done that shit before. Now he’s taking off and I don’t know where he goes. I’m slipping and even he sees it.”

Mickey still refused to meet his eyes and it was hitting home to Ian just how much a rift with Sal was eating Mickey up inside. Ian rolled to the side and sat up, causing a little jolt of panic in Mickey until Ian stroked his chest soothingly.

“It has nothing to do with you,” Ian said at last, confusing Mickey, “this might not be the easiest thing to hear, but everything going on with Sal is just Sal and what’s happening inside his head. It’s got nothing to do with you, or not trusting you or anything like that. He’s not trying to hurt you or punish you; he’s just not thinking about you. He’s not thinking about anyone right now.”

Mickey only stared and Ian ran a hand through his hair in frustration as he tried to arrange his thoughts. It was the hardest thing in the world to articulate the chaos and power of a downward spiral, and how all consuming it was to the person trapped in it.

“I mean it’s not the same, but it kind of is, you know? I’ve been there and I recognize it,” Ian said and his hand twisted into the sheets, “it’s like you’ve been on a ride for so long and everything’s fine and you feel like you’re in control. Then something changes and suddenly everything’s crazy and you can feel yourself spinning out, but you just can’t bail out of that ride. Having your family see it is just so much worse, you know? Because you’re failing and you’re flaming out, and you know it and they know. They just want to step in and fix it and make you better and they can’t, because you don’t want to be fixed and you’re not there yet. You don’t want them to take the last bit of control you think you have. So you push or you run, just so you can keep that ride going for as long as you can.”

“How does that end up?” Mickey asked quietly.

“You crash,” Ian said with chilling matter-of-factness, “and they take away the control you never had anyway. Sal’s flaming out right now and he can’t do it in front of you. You’ll just try to fix, because that’s what you do for him; fix his messes.”

“It’s what I’m here for,” Mickey said, lost.

“No, you’re not,” Ian said exasperatedly and flopped down onto the pillows next to Mickey, “you’re here to fix Renaults, or teach accounting, or do fake palm readings, or whatever the fuck you really feel like doing.”

“Supposed this is what I want to do?”

“Then you wouldn’t be this unhappy about it,” Ian said simply. Mickey didn’t have a response for that. He flipped onto his stomach, turning away from Ian, and making it known that the conversation was now officially over.

* * *

A couple days later, Ian and Alex stumbled out of their philosophy exam, exhausted and brain-fried.

“Which essay did you do?” Alex asked as she pored over her paper. Ian snatched it away from her, folded it and shoved it into her pocket.

“Asshole with a lantern; I never thought I’d be happy to see him. No way I’d last through the other options.”

“Same, and stop calling him an asshole. The man was a visionary,” Alex ordered and Ian rolled his eyes. She would think that; she was just as cynical. She checked her watch and elbowed him, “I have time before my shift. Wanna get some lunch? I’m fucking starving.”

“Of course you are; you’re a bonafide stoner now,” Ian laughed, “all this interest in weed lately. I’m not surprised you have the munchies twenty-four/seven.”

“Shut up,” she said as she flushed red, “I have a stressful life, it mellows me out and I get a good deal!”

“Oh yeah, I bet you do.”

After he and Alex parted ways, he called Mickey, eager to tell him about his exam and to meet up. “How was it?” Mickey asked him when they connected and Ian grinned broadly into the phone.

“Could have been worse, I guess. Lucky for me, your boy showed up in the essay section and I was all over him.”

“See, you always freak out for nothing. You need a ride? I can send Iggy. I’m at Sandrini’s and up to my ass in a year’s worth of fucked up accounting.”

“Oh,” Ian said, rolling over that piece of information, “want me to come hang with you? I can find my own way there.”

* * *

Mickey agreed, to Ian’s surprise, and within the hour Ian was walking up to the bar which was eerily still and quiet in the daytime. Ian stepped inside to find all the brothers, save Mickey and Iggy, lounging about. He greeted them as he walked in, just in time to see Iggy emerging from around the back with a crate of liquor. Iggy’s face lit up.

“Hey, what’s up, dude?” Iggy called out, “am I glad to see you. Can you give me a hand?” he said nodding at the crate he just shoved under the bar, “no one else wants to fucking help me!” he yelled for the benefit of his brothers, all of whom remained unperturbed and simply ignored him.

Ian laughed and followed Iggy to the rear of the bar. They went past some of the back rooms and Iggy nodded to the door at the end of the corridor. “He’s in there; you can dump your stuff,” Iggy said. Ian knocked and shoved the door open to find Mickey at the desk, sleeves rolled up with a pile of ledgers before him and an ashtray full of barely smoked cigarettes. This did not bode well.

“I’ll be right back,” he told Mickey and dropped his bag and jacket on the small settee near the door. He left Mickey to help out Iggy, who still waited at the end of the narrow corridor. To Ian’s astonishment, Iggy pulled a hidden lever and a doorway slid open in the wall. “Dude, what the fuck?!” he exclaimed, trailing behind Iggy as the man slipped through the opening and turned into the hidden passageway to head down a flight of wooden stairs.

“Nearly pissed yourself, right?” Iggy laughed, “I did the same thing. This place is full of shit like this. Sandrini’s used to be a speakeasy back in the day,” he informed a gobsmacked Ian. He opened another door which turned out to be a storage room with supplies for the bar, crates of liquor and a large deep freeze. Iggy popped the freezer open and took out a can of beer. “Want one?” he tossed it to Ian and took one for himself. As they stood about downing their beers, Iggy briefly filled Ian in on Sandrini’s history. “Yeah, during Prohibition this was a restaurant in the daytime and then everybody got wild at night. What these walls have seen, dude.”

“Huh, well that sort of explains all the weird peepholes upstairs,” Ian mused and frowned at the memory of Jaime torturing him with the sight of Mickey and the prostitute. “Doesn’t make them less creepy, but it does supply some context. I know a few history majors who’d get instant hard-ons for this.”

“Ooh, don’t tell them though,” Iggy said as he drained his beer. “They kept this on the down low even after Prohibition ended. The Outfit didn’t want Historical societies and nosy-parkers crawling all over their shit. Only some of the older heads and the wise guys really know about these places. You know Linda’s aunt?”

“The one that taught Mickey and Mandy the palm reading scam?”

“The very same,” Iggy said and grabbed a crate, indicating to Ian to do the same, “her house was a speakeasy too. So fucking awesome. When we were kids, we’d crawl all over Sandrini’s and her place and the other old hangouts just discovering tunnels and hidden rooms and all that.”

Ian wouldn’t mind doing that himself. He made a mental note to turn that into a date night. Hopefully, Mickey wouldn’t think it was the worst idea in the world. At the moment, Ian was more interested in seeing what Mickey was up to than exploring old Prohibition haunts. He found Mickey where he had left him, scanning ledgers, and with his brow furrowed to its absolute limit.

“People still keep book-books?” Ian asked and took a seat on the settee. “When are you guys going to join the rest of the world in the twenty-first century?”

“Electronic crap only makes it easy for the forensic accountant. The ‘official’ books are on the computers; the real books are here,” Mickey said, nodding to the pile, and they were a fucking mess. Mickey had spent weeks slowly going over them. Saul, Sal’s accountant, had been a missing in action for close to a year, and Mickey shuddered at the implications of that. He hadn’t been able to contact him and it was hard making inquiries without raising red flags with the wrong people. What was truly alarming though was the sheer amount of money that was missing from Sal’s various businesses, and the implications of that were far worse.

Mickey couldn’t believe he had missed all of this. Sal was a big, flashy spender—he had always been—but the money coming in had been more than enough to cover everything. Mickey had blindly and foolishly believed that everything was still the same, not factoring in the crippling expense of Sal’s addiction and vices. They were haemorrhaging money. Mickey didn’t have the expertise or experience to deal with this. He wasn’t verse enough on Saul’s sophisticated shell game of concealing the missing pieces and creating the illusion of financial health. He didn’t even know who he could trust to do it for him; not while the Feds were out there rocking the boat and Sal was off losing his shit. He could feel despair closing in on him and he was completely at sea about how to stave it off.

Ian watched with silent, growing concern as Mickey examined the books. The look on Mickey’s face was getting increasing confused and hopeless, and when Mickey balled his fist and ground it against his forehead, Ian became alarmed. It was a tic he noticed Mickey had whenever he got too agitated and overwhelmed, and it skated too perilously close to self-harm for Ian’s liking.

“Mickey, come here.”

Mickey glanced over at the sound of Ian’s voice, but only shook his head. His brain swam and his eyes were glued to the damning numbers and he didn’t have the capacity to process anything else.

“Mickey, come here,” Ian repeated. There was a drop in his voice and a change in his tone that transformed the request into a command. The effect on Mickey was instantaneous. He hesitated briefly before closing the book and getting up. He came to Ian but gave the door a nervous look. “I locked it,” Ian said before hooking his foot around the back of Mickey’s leg, making the man drop to his knees between Ian’s legs. “You’re just doing too much right now,” Ian murmured and smoothed Mickey’s brow. Their eyes locked and Ian trailed his thumb beneath Mickey’s lower lip. “You need to take a break from all that and focus on making me happy. That’s the only thing you should be thinking about.” Ian sat back and stared at Mickey steadily. “How are you going to make me happy?”

Mickey didn’t hesitate this time. He quickly and deftly undid Ian’s jeans, glancing up at Ian as he unzipped him. He took Ian into his mouth eagerly, thrilling at Ian’s contented moan and the feel of Ian’s fingers raking through his hair. Mickey grunted with pleasure as Ian’s grip in his hair tightened and the world shrank down to just the two of them—just the way Mickey needed it to right then. When Ian was fully hard, Mickey redoubled his efforts, flattening his tongue against the underside of Ian’s cock and swallowing him deeply until he could feel Ian against the back of his throat. He reached down to squeeze his own erection through the material of his pants.

“No,” Ian said hoarsely. Mickey quickly obeyed, abandoning the thoughts of relief to fist his hand in Ian’s T-shirt instead. “Stop,” Ian told him, and he reluctantly backed off. He was rewarded when Ian leaned forward to brush their lips together and grope the hard line of Mickey’s cock before unzipping him. “Do you want me to fuck you here?” Ian asked as he slipped his hand inside Mickey’s pants and underwear. He pulled on Mickey’s tie, making Mickey sit up taller. Mickey tried to close the small distance for another kiss, but Ian kept just out of reach. “You have to answer me first,” he whispered and pumped Mickey’s aching cock with agonizing slowness. “You want me to fuck you here, on the floor—” Ian smiled when Mickey’s breath hitched and the man bit his lip, “—with your brothers right outside? Do you want it that bad?”

“Yes,” Mickey shuddered, “please.”

* * *

Jaime’s eyes narrowed when he heard the car pull up outside. He exchanged a look with Tony and went to the window to see who their visitors could be. He almost groaned out loud at the sight of a familiar Oldsmobile Toronado parking outside.

“Johnnie Boy,” Jaime told his brothers and sat back down near the bar.

A moment later, in walked John “Johnnie Boy” Marcello, faithful Outfit member and the newest capo—occupying the post left vacant after the promotion of Big Tony. “Trigger” DeStafano, his enforcer, came with him and all the Milkoviches wanted to know was what they had done to warrant this visit. The capo looked around at the brothers and snorted with obvious disdain.

“Well if it isn’t Jermaine, Tito, and the other ones no one gives a shit about,” he said as he stepped deeper into the bar. He pulled on his cigar and looked over at Jaime, “so where’s Michael?”

* * *

Mickey was still on his knees, between Ian’s legs, letting his boyfriend kiss him as if the world was ending. Ian was taking his time unbuttoning Mickey’s vest and Mickey patiently bided time until Ian would push him to the floor and incinerate him from the inside out. When the knock came, Mickey nearly lost it.

“Not a good time!” He yelled at the interruption.

Iggy’s voice was apologetic but unwavering, “yeah sorry, but Johnnie Boy is here. He wants to see you.”

“Fuck!” Mickey said and just like that the scene shattered and ended. Mickey pulled away abruptly from Ian and got to his feet. Ian didn’t have to wonder if his submissive had taken a rain check. “Pull yourself together,” Mickey ordered Ian as he zipped up his pants and ran his hand through his hair. “Fucker’s likely to bust in here at any minute.”

Ian neatened his clothes and tried his best to hide any evidence of their disrupted tryst. Mickey chanced making the capo wait a little longer while he willed his blood to cool. “Stay in here,” he told Ian tersely and headed out.

* * *

Johnnie was just about to head in and haul Mickey out by his hair when the young man emerged. The nerve of the little shit, making him wait like this. The smugness and the stupid, fucking swagger just made him want to slap the piss out of Mickey, but then again, all in due time. He instinctively ran a self-conscious hand over his smooth, bald dome. He had had hair like Mickey once. It made him sick.

There wasn’t a thing about any of the Milkoviches he could stand. He and so many of the North side Outfit had had to bite their tongues and swallow their bile while Sal flouted his little sycophants in front of them. Johnnie was going to enjoy stomping them out like the roaches they were, almost as much as he was going to enjoy ripping Salvatore apart.

“Mr. Marcello,” Mickey greeted with a sardonic smile, “what brings you here today?”

Johnnie took a steadying drag of his Cuban and told himself it would be in poor taste to beat on a little boy. He blew out a puff of smoke, making no attempt to avoid Mickey’s face. “Just you and your crew here today? You’re the one running Sandrini’s now? Even this Sal gives to you?”

“We’re not running Sandrini’s,” Mickey replied. Not even Sal would go that far. Sandrini’s was a mob fixture going back to the ‘20s and even Sal knew to keep it in the family. “Petey is under the weather today. He asked us to look in.”

“Hmm, I see, and the garages and the whorehouse… you still running those?” Johnnie asked, failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. It grated on him when Mickey just stared back at him silently. “You think that’s right, that you have those rackets? You, who are not even paisan, control all these things when there are good men here being passed over? Men who have been putting in time and work and earning money for this organization long before your whore mother got the first hair on her cunt. You think that’s right?”

Mickey’s jaw twitched and he shuffled slightly as he scratched his nose with the back of his thumb. Beyond Johnnie, Mickey’s brothers stirred and Trigger cast an eye on them.

“Easy, Johnnie Boy,” Trigger laughed, “I think you’re offending their delicate sensibilities.”

Johnnie snorted, “is that right?” he asked Mickey, “you think I’m insulting your mother’s memory? What the fuck do you know? I knew her and your piece of shit father a whole longer than you ever did.” With that, he stepped closer to Mickey, “now you listen and you listen good. I know we’re in the middle of a slow recession recovery and all that shit, but the kick-ups that have been coming from Salvatore have been unacceptable. For months now, the powers that be have been noticing a steady decline and you know what the word is? Word is that Big Sally is robbing us; skimping on his dues,” Johnnie took another pull of his cigar and raked Mickey’s blank face, “now we have addressed this concern to Sal several times and we would again, but no one seems to be able to lock the fucker down lately.”

“Very scarce,” Trigger added, “he’s more ghost than man right now.”

“I know, it’s so strange,” Johnnie chuckled, “but if you can’t get the capo, get his consigliere, right? Do you know where he is?” he asked Mickey.

“I do not,” Mickey said quietly and though he did his best not to betray it, he could feel his throat tightening and his face burning.

“How unfortunate… for you,” Johnnie said and then shrugged exaggeratedly, “just as well; we hear you’re the man that makes the magic happen anyway. So if and when you happen to locate him, you tell Big Sally that he needs to square up and have a proper discussion with us, right? And tell him to stop all this shady shit, it makes us nervous and we don’t handle that shit well.”

Johnnie and Trigger seemed to conclude their visit and turned to head out. Johnnie did another sweep of the silent brothers and paused to call back to Mickey. “Your sister out of the joint yet? She’s the only one of you I can stand to look at for more than a minute,” he said and could not resist one more parting shot. “If it’s really a cash flow problem, maybe you can send her my way. I’ll throw a couple dollars at her. Hopefully she’s a good girl like your mother.”

Mickey watched as the two men exited the bar laughing and he could feel his brothers’ eyes turning to him. He was just trying his best not to shake. When he heard the sound of the Toronado’s engine turning over, his mind immediately locked on a possible outlet.

* * *

Ian didn’t know what to make of it when they pulled up outside the Rub and Tug. Mickey had been eerily calm and silent since they had been interrupted earlier. He hadn’t known how to breach the wall Mickey had thrown up and all he could do was follow as Mickey strode to the door. Svetlana greeted them just as they came across the threshold.

“It’s good you are here,” she said to Mickey.

“Christ, what fucking now?!”

Ian was ordered to have a seat in the sitting area—where the waiting patrons were all still avoiding eye contact—and Mickey followed Svetlana upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Inside, he found two of his girls, positively fuming and glaring at a thin young man who was nervously fussing with his snapback cap.

“What?” Mickey demanded.

“He got his and now he doesn’t want to pay, daddy,” Lindsay, the taller of the two young women, told him.

Mickey covered his face with hands and groaned to the heavens. “When did this become a thing with you girls? Honestly, I never asked for this and this is all I’m hearing day in and day out with you all. You’re ruining my life in ways you can’t even imagine. No more, I’m issuing an embargo on all things ‘daddy.’ Now you, why aren’t you paying my girls?”

“They didn’t do it right,” the young man said, already on the defensive.

“Oh fuck you, Speedy Gonzalez. It’s not our fault you order all this elaborate shit and couldn’t last thirty seconds into it!”

Mickey was curious, “why, what did he get?”

“He wanted a caramel double dip with some blonde spice.”

Mickey was nonplussed, “what the fuck is that? Are we a Starbucks or a whorehouse?”

Svetlana attempted to explain, “it’s when you get two girls together and—”

Mickey stopped her, “never mind, it sounds expensive,” he said and turned back to the young man, “pay my girls.”

“They didn’t do it right!”

“Sounds like _you_ didn’t do it right. I don’t give a fuck either way. Pay up and apologise to the ladies,” Mickey said, nearing the end of his patience.

“I would, but I don’t see any ladies here,” the young man sassed.

The defiance was almost beautiful to behold and Mickey might have admired it if he wasn’t already in the worst mood. As such, Mickey decided a backhand was more in order. Why was everyone fucking with him today?

* * *

All was quiet in the living room until there was a yell, followed by a thud, followed by the sight and sound of a body tumbling head over heels down the staircase. Mickey was close behind and when he reached the bottom of the stairs he continued the assault with several hard punches to the face. He then fished the young man’s wallet out of his jeans.

“Eight dollars? You asked for all that shit and you only have eight dollars?!” he delivered a hard kick to the man’s midsection. He handed off the money to the girls and stooped down, “you know what I’m going to do, I’m going to knock your teeth down your throat and you can blow anyone who requests it until we’re square!”

“Um, is he wearing Ferraris?” Lindsay asked, nodding to the downed man’s red Air Jordans, “because my brother would pay top dollar for those and that should cover it.”

“Look at that, she just saved your teeth!” Mickey said and yanked off the man’s sneakers. The now ex-client perked up to protest.

“Yo, Mickey, don’t take my kicks, man. What the fuck?!” he squeaked as Mickey hauled him to his feet and marched him to the door. “You should be gorilla pimping these disrespectful hoes instead of your customers. This is fucked—”

Mickey tossed him out and slammed the door after him. When he turned back, everyone was wide-eyed and staring. “Make sure you can cover your bill.”

“You’re in good mood,” Svetlana observed.

“Whatever, where’s Trish?”

“With client; she should be finished soon.”

* * *

“Ah ‘The Great Conversation’,” Trish said and plucked the textbook out of Ian’s open bag. “This was like mother’s milk to me during undergrad. I focused on nihilism for post grad. It was rattling at first, but there is something so fundamentally freeing about realizing that this is all bullshit and everything is meaningless,” she said. She smiled sweetly as her blushing client bid her a tender farewell and then gave him a sultry wink. “Come again to come again.”

Ian could only stare as the young woman plopped down next to him. “Post grad? You have a philosophy masters?”

“I have a bunch of stuff,” she said offhandedly, “I’m what my parents call a ‘dabbler.’”

Ian didn’t know what to make of this. “So, um, why are you here?”

“Because God got bored and launched a massive role player game for shits and giggles.”

“No, I just meant here,” he said, looking around the house, “don’t you want to do something… else?”

Trish laughed out loud, “aw, you’re cute and a total prisoner of societal convention. I’m here because I have a wet pussy, a dry purse, and very expensive tastes. Being here takes care of all of that. Plus I really, really like sex.” Trish spotted Svetlana waving to her and dropped the textbook in Ian’s lap. “Don’t let a stratified society that’s desperate to maintain ridiculous status quos convince you that any one chosen profession or lifestyle is more degrading than another. We’re all shaking our asses and selling something. I’m just more direct about it. I’m going to do shit my way until the abyss claims me.”

The Frank fumes were so strong, Ian almost passed out. Ian stopped her before she sauntered off. “This is going to sound really weird, but has your mom ever mentioned a man named Frank Gallagher? Because I think we might be cousins.”

* * *

Svetlana watched Mickey with narrowed eyes as they waited for Trish in the study. He was clearly on edge, but he hadn’t said a word to her. She contemplated pressing him for information, but she decided against it. Engaging Mickey when he was wound up this tightly would probably only leave them both frustrated and angry.

Trish’s smile when she saw Mickey was luminous and she skipped to him happily, “hey, da—”

“No! No,” Mickey said, waving a finger at her. “I’ll start coming here with rolled up newspaper, I swear to god,” he huffed even while she rolled her eyes, ignored his censure and went about fussing with his tie. Ian was going to murder her one day. Between the red hair and the tie fetish, there could be only one. “Let me ask you something, have you been to any of Sandrini’s parties yet, or on any of the booze cruises?”

“No, I’ve only worked in house so far.”

“Good, that’s good. You ever heard about a man named Johnnie Boy Marcello,” Mickey asked. Trish shook her head and Mickey could see Svetlana shift in her seat, now on edge. “I have a special job for you. I’m going to send you over to him in a couple days and I need you to lock him down for about an hour. I mean I don’t even want that fucker coming up for air; you should be the only thing in his universe until you leave him a spent man.”

Trish smirked and flipped her hair back. That was the easiest assignment in the world.

“What are you doing?!” Svetlana demanded after Trish was sent back out. Mickey didn’t answer her, but she followed him out the study doggedly. “What are you doing?!” Still he ignored her. “Mikhail!” she said sharply and it was finally enough to stop him.

Mickey doubled back and re-entered the study, closing the door behind them. “I’m not doing anything but defending my own. They think they can just come in and shit all over us like we’re not people too; like we’re some gutter trash that don’t deserve respect—”

“Because you’re a man, ain’t you?” Svetlana mocked. They’d all heard it a million times before. It sounded no fresher coming from Mickey. “He’s a made man, a capo now! You’ll be corpse in river. No head, no hands, but we’ll know it’s you!”

“You think I’m new to this? Don’t try to teach me anything; I know what the fuck I’m doing.”

Svetlana shook her head as she watched him stalk out and head straight for the front door. She could tell Ian was just as off-kilter about Mickey’s mood and she could imagine him trying to sort it all out. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to tell him that it was probably pointless or encourage him to try his hardest. It didn’t matter in any event; Ian had already followed Mickey out the door. From her experience, whenever Mickey got like this, all one could do was ride out the storm.

* * *

John Marcello thought his apartment was a piece of crap. It was a modest North side bachelor pad, but he found it unbefitting of a man of his stature. His ex-wife had burned him badly in the divorce and after the alimony, this is all he could get and still be North side. He’d upgrade soon enough when the capo kick-ups started rolling in. Good luck to the ex-wife proving his income had improved because he got a promotion in the fucking mob. Still, there were some benefits to the dump sometimes. Like when a smoking hot redhead showed up at his door in a very unsubtle trench coat.

“Hey Arnie,” she purred and opened the coat to reveal the skimpy, skin-tight, latex nurse’s outfit beneath it. There wasn’t a flaw on that body. Johnnie nearly passed out. “I heard you were under the weather. Here’s hoping a little TLC will get you going again.”

She handed him a card and Johnnie immediately saw the problem. God bless Arnold Hinklemeyer and his nearly identical apartment number. This was the best mistaken delivery Johnnie had gotten so far.

“The boys, huh? Those jokers,” Johnnie laughed goofily and stepped aside so Trish could slink inside.

“I thought you were laid up with a broken leg?” Trish said as Johnnie nervously fluttered around her. His limp was suddenly very pronounced.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, just got the cast off. Still hurts like a bitch and a half though. You, uh, you mentioned TLC?”

A couple blocks up the road, Jaime’s phone buzzed with a text from Trish. “She’s in,” he said to Iggy and Joey, who sat in the back seat of the grey Camry, “go do your thing.”

Iggy and Joey got out and headed for the parking lot for Johnnie’s apartment building. They tried their best to appear smooth and unsuspicious—a sad display that amused their older brothers greatly.

“Look at these dumb shits,” Jaime laughed as Iggy and Joey tried to amble nonchalantly up the street.

“Two of the shadiest-looking motherfuckers alive,” Tony agreed and the two of them watched until their little brothers disappeared from sight.

They weren’t the stealthiest, but once they got to the car they were very efficient. Joey was inside the car within a matter of seconds and quickly slipped the car into neutral. He got out and he and Iggy pushed the car out of the parking lot, making sure they were a sufficient distance away before they hotwired the car and let loose the distinctive sound of Johnnie’s Toronado engine turning over. They zipped past Jaime and Tony, cheesing away like mad.

“Morons,” Jaime laughed.

“Dumb fucks,” Tony agreed, and then the two brothers settled in for the wait.

* * *

Mickey paced the floor of Sal’s chop shop in a tight circle, unable to relax. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when Iggy and Joey finally turned into the lot. They brought the car to a smooth stop at Mickey’s feet and were rewarded with a smile for their efforts.

“Nice,” Mickey said, “any problems?”

“Nah, it’s all good,” Iggy told him, “Tony and Jaime are there in case Trish pushes the panic button, but he let her in, no questions.”

“Did Annie do the thing?” Joey asked, his excitement palpable.

“Annie did the thing,” Mickey confirmed as he ran his hands over the hood of the Toronado and murmured a silent apology, “just for me to install it and then we can sit back and watch the show.”

* * *

Mickey was emanating a weird vibe when he came to get Ian that evening. They didn’t speak much as they headed back into the North side and Ian’s confusion was only compounded when Mickey led him to an empty apartment with all the Milkovich siblings inside and plastered to the windows.

“What’s going on?” Ian asked suspiciously.

“You’ll see,” Mandy sang out and pulled him to stand next to her at the window. What they were staring at, Ian wasn’t sure. All he saw was a run of the mill apartment building with a few cars in the parking lot.

“He come out yet?” Mickey asked.

“Nah, but he’ll be out in a couple minutes though,” Jaime said, “that fucker’s never late to the gentleman’s club.”

Mandy was leaning on his shoulder, Mickey on the other side of him, and all eyes were glued to the outside. Ian’s apprehension was steadily increasing. When he finally saw Joey fiddling with what looked like a crude, remote detonator, Ian’s anxiety immediately bubbled up.

“Mickey, what the fuck’s going—” Ian trailed off because the distracted, distant way Mickey stroked his arm chilled him a little and felt disturbingly familiar. The room started buzzing with energy, and Ian turned his attention back outside where a lone man was swaggering towards his car. Ian could feel Mandy practically vibrating.

“Now?” Joey asked in a breathy whisper.

“Wait,” Mickey said, watching Johnnie’s approach and remembering Annie’s advice about the range. “Wait… now!”

Joey slammed down on the detonator and a moment later, the Toronado was a fireball. It wasn’t the most massive blast, but the force of the explosion was still enough to knock Johnnie right off his feet. Ian jerked backwards, startled, but the majority of the Milkoviches had lost their minds. Iggy and Joey were laughing like loons while Mandy, Jaime and Tony were celebrating. Then there in the middle of the madness was Mickey, lighting up a cigarette and smiling serenely as he watched the world burn.


	25. Lying Away From You

The world pitched dizzyingly even though he had been knocked flat on his back by the blast. He blinked slowly, completely disoriented as clouds, dust and stars swirled above him. The ringing in his ears was deafening and when he struggled to sit up, he realized his equilibrium had been shot to hell. It took what felt like ages for him just to get up on his elbows as he fought back a strong wave of nausea. When Johnnie Marcello finally propped himself up, all he could see was the blazing ruin of his car. He collapsed backwards onto the hard ground, wiped up by his earlier efforts. It was another car gone. This wasn’t the first time this had happened to him, but this shit never got easier.

In the apartment across the street, Ian was still staring at the aftermath as Milkoviches celebrated around him. Mickey was staring too, still silent and apparently lost in thought, so it was Mandy who ended up engaging Ian and dragging him out of his reverie. She rested her chin on his shoulder and looked up at him with shining eyes.

“I guess you just got jumped in,” she whispered conspiratorially, almost giddy from the heady satisfaction of revenge. “Most gangs beat the shit out of you for initiation; lucky for you, it’s old Johnnie Boy that’s feeling the pain instead.  … Call me a whore,” she snorted before she flipped off the dazed man lying supine in the distance.

“We’re going,” Mickey said abruptly. Soon there would be the sounds of approaching sirens and he intended that they would all be long gone by then. At his word, the gathered Milkoviches seemed to melt away, each small group going its own path.

Before long, Ian was back in the passenger seat of the grey Camry and heading towards home. The whole thing had taken a little more than half an hour—just thirty minutes for the world to shake and shift. They drove in silence, Mickey’s eyes not deviating even once from the road, even as Ian slowly surfaced from his shock and began staring at him.

“What the hell was that?!” Ian said, shattering the quiet of the car.

Mickey tensed slightly at Ian’s sudden volume, but then shrugged, all the while looking straight ahead. “He disrespected us. He can’t just do that.”

“He disrespected you? Are you fucking kidding me?!” Ian asked incredulously, “Mickey, who is he?!”

“Another Outfit capo; he’s had it in for us since the second we got here—”

Ian interrupted him quickly, “a capo? You just blew up a capo’s car? How could you—what the fuck, Mickey?! What if he finds out?! What if he knows it’s you?!”

“Johnnie’s got beef with everybody, because he’s an annoying, mouthy, little prick,” Mickey said defensively, “he’s got a long list to work through before he even considers us. Besides, I told Annie to put a Hell’s Henchmen tag on that bomb and they’ve been wanting him dead for years.”

“Oh, oh well then, what the fuck am I worried about? Clearly, it’s all good!” Ian sneered, “are you out of your mind?! Mickey, what could he do if he finds out?!”

“He’s not going to find out; I planned this—”

“Fuck your planning! What is wrong with you?! You have enough shit to deal with and you take a risk like this? Who gives a fuck if he disrespected you? Why couldn’t you let this shit go?!”

“Because you don’t let shit like this go, Ian!” Mickey snapped suddenly, making Ian fall silent, “this is what we do. This is how we respond! I thought you said you wanted to know,” Mickey said, breathing heavily, “full disclosure, right?” He finally glanced over at Ian, the nervousness in his look belying the hardness of his tone. “Well now you know.”

Ian leaned back and wiped his hands over his face in exhaustion and exasperation. “Jesus, Mickey, I don’t even know right now.”

Mickey hazarded another quick, anxious glance at Ian, but by then Ian had gone silent and was lost in thought. The ride continued in tense silence and when Mickey parked in front of Ian’s building, Ian stepped out of the car without a further word. Mickey sat uncertainly at the wheel as he watched his boyfriend cross the street. Ian hadn’t given him any definite cues to work with and he was unsure about whether he was supposed to leave or follow. Mickey hesitated a while longer, before he took the chance and got out of the car.

Ian was holding the elevator door when he got there and Mickey quickly slipped inside. Ian still wasn’t saying anything, opting instead to lean against the back of the elevator and close his eyes. Mickey raked his face, desperate for some clue as to Ian’s thoughts, but the next thing he knew, they were on Ian’s floor and Mickey was trailing after him again.

Ian sighed heavily as he slipped off his jacket and tossed it onto the bed. He was just relieved that they had made it home without Mickey’s phone going off to announce some fresh hell with which to contend. He turned to say something to his boyfriend, only to find Mickey hovering anxiously at the still open door, the hard façade now gone, leaving him clearly nervous and agitated. _Oh god, what now?_

“What?” he asked Mickey.

“I don’t—do you want me to go or…?”

Ian’s brow furrowed as he stared at Mickey standing on the threshold. Ian sighed again and stepped forward so he could grab Mickey’s jacket and yank him inside. Ian then closed the door and shoved Mickey back into it, greatly surprising the latter.

“Don’t fucking blindside me,” Ian demanded as he fisted his hands in Mickey’s jacket. “I really didn’t appreciate the surprise. If you’re going to show off what a big, bad gangster you are, maybe warn a dude first. I struggle with anxiety, Mickey!”

“Ah, okay…”

“You have anger management issues; bad ones. We need to work on that. You can’t go flying off the handle and blowing shit up when someone disrespects you or pisses you off; especially another gangster, especially a fucking capo who could have your head!”

Mickey shrank back a little as Ian’s volume and intensity grew. Ian realized he was getting worked up, so he paused, took a breath and tried to dial back a little. He chewed his inner cheek as he looked down at Mickey for a moment before he started again.

“Yes, I want to know, okay? I want to know what you’re doing and what you’re dealing with, and I need to know you’re okay and that you’re not doing shit to needlessly up your risk levels. I don’t necessarily want to see it in person, but yeah, I want to know. I want all these different parts of you, Mick; even the scary, crazy bits.”

“You wanted to take off after you saw Sal going in on that cyclist dude that harassed you,” Mickey pointed out.

“Um yes, because up until that point, I thought Sal was just your kindly neighbourhood garage owner. After that incident, I realized he was the exact opposite of that and was actually an Al Capone wannabe. So yeah, I wanted to disappear. This is a totally different situation, Mickey; I didn’t go into this blind with you. I know who you are, I know what you do. You try to compartmentalize and hide it away, but I still know you’re not out there building habitats for humanity. I just want things to be different and better for you. I want you to be safe.” Ian relaxed his death grip on Mickey’s jacket and leaned into him. “No matter what you end up doing, I’m in this,” he said softly, “whatever this is.”

Mickey pulled Ian against him, crashing their lips together as he shrugged off his jacket. He pushed Ian back towards the bed, still kissing him desperately until Ian’s knees met the back of the bed and he fell backwards onto it. Ian quickly kicked off his shoes, responding to the urgency radiating from Mickey, and had barely gotten the second one off before Mickey was on top of him, shoving him further up the bed.

For a while, Ian let Mickey take the lead completely, figuring it was what Mickey needed. There was something different in Mickey’s aggression, and as he pressed against Ian and tugged at his clothes, Ian could feel the frustration and tension building until it finally clicked. He pushed Mickey off before grabbing the startled man around the middle and slamming him so hard onto his back that the bed groaned in pained protest.

Mickey’s relief was palpable when Ian straddled him and pinned his hands above his head. Ian leaned down to kiss him roughly, biting and pulling at Mickey’s lips while he shoved his free hand up Mickey’s shirt to palm his heated skin. When Ian pulled back, they were both panting heavily, their breaths coming in rough, short bursts that turned into moans when Ian rocked down hard against Mickey’s groin. Ian tugged off his shirt and Mickey scrambled to follow suit, only for Ian to shove him back down again so he could remove Mickey’s pants himself.

He held one hand flat on Mickey’s chest, keeping the squirming man pinned to the bed while he groped him through his boxer-briefs. Mickey arched into his touch and gripped his thighs as he increased the pressure on Mickey’s hardened cock with each stroke. Ian held Mickey fast to the bed while he undid his own pants, shoving them down past his hips so he could tease Mickey more when he ground against him through the barrier of their underwear. He rutted against Mickey and pulled him into another searing kiss while Mickey frantically tried to push Ian’s pants off with his feet. Ian laughed at the effort and helpfully kicked off his pants before yanking Mickey’s head back by his hair and attacking Mickey’s throat with his tongue and teeth, making Mickey whine from the pleasure of it. The sound of Ian’s phone ringing nearly made Mickey go nuclear.

“The fuck!” Mickey growled in frustration.

Ian took a second to listen to the assigned ringtone. “It’s Sal,” he told Mickey as he looked down at him expectantly.

Mickey lay panting, listening to the phone ringing. He was conflicted only for a moment. “Get him to fuck off; you’re mine today.”

Ian made a mental note to correct that later, but made a quick dive to get his phone out of his discarded pants. “Hello?”

“Whoa, what’s wrong with you?” Sal asked, “why do you sound like that? Are you sick?”

Ian was confused by the concern until he realized that Sal—rather fortunately for the moment—had no idea what he sounded like when he was aroused. The older man automatically mistook the depth and huskiness of his voice for illness. Being sick meant germs and Ian could already feel Sal quailing on the other end of the line.

“Nah, I mean, I don’t think so,” Ian said before clearing his throat and letting slip the slightest of sniffles. “I went for a run and the weather’s changing and being all crazy. It’s probably just that messing me up a little. What’s going on? How are you?”

Sal was, of course, unconvinced that Ian wasn’t now carrying the plague. “Nothing, it’s nothing,” Sal said and Ian couldn’t help but notice how tired and out of it Sal sounded. “I know I’m the one that’s been a little scarce lately, but I miss you…”

The longer Ian spent on the phone, the more Mickey could feel his body cooling and his thoughts turning to Sal and all the shit that came with him. Once again, Sal had taken off to god knows where, leaving them all in the lurch. Mickey just wanted a few moments in his life that weren’t dominated by Salvatore Boerio and his drama. He didn’t think that was too much to ask. He sat up abruptly, moved to hug Ian from behind and began to kiss and nibble along his shoulder and neck. He reached around to grip Ian’s softening erection and stroke it back to life.

“Ah, um.” Ian’s spine straightened as Mickey rubbed against his back and squeezed his cock in warning that he had better hang up soon. He covered his sudden fluster with a cough. “So where are you? Do you want me to come see you?”

“No,” Sal said a touch too quickly. “You should rest up and get rid of that cold.”

“I don’t have a cold, but fine,” Ian said, graciously capitulating to Sal’s wisdom. “Call me later then?” After a fairly tender farewell, he double checked to make sure the call had ended before tossing the phone on the night table and then tackling Mickey onto his back.

* * *

Mickey surfaced the next morning to the feel of Ian’s lips against his earlobe and Ian’s hand slipping into his underwear. He laughed contentedly and relaxed into it as Ian snuggled closer.

“You can’t be fucking me up like this every morning,” he chastised Ian, who only snorted against his cheek. “I’m serious, asshole. I have collections today. I’ve gotta get mean; gotta get hard.”

“Tsk, well I don’t know about mean,” Ian said, “but you’re definitely hard.”

Admittedly, Mickey had walked right into that one. He rolled his eyes anyway, but couldn’t stop himself from thrusting into Ian’s warm grasp. “Ten minutes,” he offered, but Ian had yet to cover the fine art of negotiation in his syllabus.

Ian shrugged and scrunched his nose as he pulled the covers over them. “Let’s just see how it goes.”

“I’m not playing with you, Ian. You’re not going to make me late!”

As it turned out, Mickey would be late. It would be another hour before he managed to extricate himself from Ian so he could get back to the pool house to put on his mask and costume. After Mickey left, Ian made breakfast and spent the rest of the morning cleaning up and studying for his last final. By mid-afternoon he was ready for a break. The weather was mild enough and he decided to go for a run. Before long, he was out and warming his blood with pounding music filling his ears.

If it wasn’t for the ongoing madness of his romantic life, Dr. Lester would have been proud and relieved about how much he had eased up with his exercise regimen. He had pretty much stopped the punishing pace. He wasn’t pushing his body too hard or too fast past its limit, he wasn’t running too far. Now he was doing better with getting his endorphin rush and then listening when his body told him it was at its limit. Most of all, that urge to just run away and to keep on going didn’t haunt him so much anymore—at least not when he was alone. When he was in a certain Mustang though, was an entirely different story.

He jogged in place as he waited for the light to change so he could head into the small park. While he waited, the TV display in the nearby electronic store caught his eye. There was no sound, but it was obvious that the local news was on. The video cut back and forth between the news anchor and the reporter on site and something about the silent images made Ian want to take a closer look. He strolled into the store and quickly asked an employee if he could listen to one of the sets. The store was empty and the young man obligingly agreed. The newscast chipped in mid sentence.

 _“—a deadly shooting earlier this afternoon in the Auburn Gresham area where a man was shot and killed by a local bodega owner.”_ As the news anchor spoke, video played of a heavily blurred body stretched on the sidewalk just outside the store, while curious onlookers milled behind the police line. There was nothing to distinguish the dead man but his shiny, Italian-made shoes. Ian knew those shoes. “ _Preliminary reports indicate that the man was shot during a violent altercation with the storeowner after the victim allegedly tried to extort money from the small business.”_

Numbness slowly began spreading through Ian’s body and the feed switched once again. This time it changed to a tear-streaked woman in a hijab, supported by family and friends who tried to pull her away from the prying cameras. _“What are we to do?!”_ she wailed, _“every month they do this. Every month they come like vultures to pick our bones. We tell them we have no money. We tell them we cannot live! They don’t care; they just threaten us and take everything. We can’t break even and still they take everything. What are we to do? My children—”_ she dissolved in wracking sobs and she was finally whisked away by her family. The news anchor filled the screen again, but Ian could no longer hear her.

He took out his phone and found Mickey’s number while the world faded to a dull roar around him. He dialled and listened while the phone rang, then rang and rang. Eventually, Mickey’s voicemail picked up and Ian hung up so he could try again. The phone rang without answer for a second time and Mickey’s automated Spanish voicemail picked up again, because Mickey would never leave his voice on a recording. The absurdity of it all suddenly struck Ian and he almost burst out into hysterical laughter. He kept it contained, but the numbness was wearing off and Ian’s hand was shaking badly when he dialled Mickey the third time. The phone kept ringing and Ian could feel his throat closing up. On the sixth ring, the line crackled open.

“Yeah?” Mickey answered and Ian gasped audibly at the sound of his voice. “…Gallagher?” Mickey asked cautiously, but Ian was at a loss as to how to respond. “Gallagher? Ian, is something wro—”

Ian hung up and tried to will his hands to stop shaking. He needed to get back home.

* * *

It took about an hour before Mickey could get away to race over to Ian. The strange, silent phone call had freaked Mickey out, and he cycled through a never-ending list of devastating possibilities. He opened Ian’s door and, for a moment, saw no signs of him until he noticed the open door of the small closet and Ian’s long legs sticking out. Therein Mickey found his boyfriend sitting down, eyes closed, apparently just hanging out in the quiet dark.

“Hey?” Mickey hazarded and Ian opened his eyes to look up at him.

“Hey,” Ian replied.

“You okay? What’s going on?”

Ian shook his head, “nothing, I just need a minute. I’ll be out soon.”

“Ian, what is this? Are you—”

“Please? I just need a minute.”

Mickey stopped talking and nodded. He moved away from the closet, bewildered, and went to sit at Ian’s study table so he could wait for Ian to re-emerge and explain what was going on. Only, Ian wasn’t out of the closet a minute later, or even fifteen minutes after that. Ian refused to talk to him and as the time approached an hour, Ian remained silent and on the floor. Mickey began to panic.

“Hey, dude, what’s up?” Alex greeted sunnily when she saw Ian’s phone call.

“Something’s up with Ian,” Mickey said breathlessly as he paced the passageway outside the door. “He called me and didn’t say anything. Now he’s just sitting on the floor in his closet and I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“Hey whoa, slow down. Mickey? What’s happening?”

* * *

It was another agonizing wait for Alex as she had to wrap up with her psych study group. When she got to the apartment, an agitated Mickey answered the door on her first knock. He looked so worried, she was tempted to hug him. They weren’t exactly friendly and she wasn’t sure he’d appreciate the gesture. She decided to split the difference.

“He’s fine,” she assured him as she dumped her stuff on Ian’s bed and headed for the closet. “Hey, dude,” she greeted Ian. Then, to Mickey’s surprise, she simply plopped down next to Ian in the closet. Alex gingerly pushed Ian’s shoes out of the way so she could sit more comfortably. “Hey, are these new Timberlands? I don’t know if I tell you this enough, but your shoe game is always on point.” She then woke her tablet, rested her head on Ian’s shoulder, and read over her notes until Ian was ready to talk.

“I thought he died,” Ian said soon after and Alex sat up.

“Who? Mickey?”

“Yeah,” Ian nodded, “there was a shooting earlier. I think another mob guy tried to shake down a bodega owner and got shot. All I could see were his shoes. He had a pair like Mickey’s, and today was a collection day, so…”

“Oh,” Alex said, now comprehending the situation. “He’s not dead though. He’s out there wearing a hole into your floor and going grey really, really quickly.”

When Alex came back out, Mickey had hoped that Ian would have followed behind her, but Ian stayed put and Alex was gathering her things, much to Mickey’s dismay.

“What happened? What are you doing?”

“Heading to my shift,” Alex said.

“Wait, you’re just leaving him here?”

“No, I’m not just leaving him here. I’m leaving him with you and you’re the person he needs right now,” Alex told him. “He thought you died today,” she said, surprising Mickey. “A shooting down in Gresham?”

“Oh,” Mickey said, “but that’s not my area. I’m strictly North side. He knows that.”

“It’s the mob. How’s he supposed to know how things are going to shake out?” Alex pointed out. “Look, I know it seems odd, but this is a coping mechanism. Things got a little on top of him today, he felt a little overwhelmed, so he went to a safe place. He’s not having a meltdown, he’s not falling apart; he’s just coping,” Alex said, trying to reassure him. Mickey still bit his nails while he looked nervously at the legs sticking out of the closet. Alex risked putting a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to be scared of him, or be scared of doing a wrong thing here. He’s not going to shatter. He just needs you to talk to him and help him process. You know his medication schedule?”

Mickey took a deep breath and nodded, already distracted by the task at hand. Alex gave him a small, comforting smile and readied to leave. “He’ll be fine,” she repeated as she headed out the door, “now go help him.”

She waited for a moment and watched as Mickey gingerly approached the closet. She smiled when she saw Mickey mimic her when he suddenly plopped down next to Ian in the space she had created. She closed the door behind her, leaving the two men to it, and turned to see Gabriela coming up the passageway.

“Hey, Alley cat,” Gabriela greeted her as she fished for her keys.

“Gabby, just the person I wanted to see. I was about to knock on your door,” Alex said, “look, Ian had a bit of a tough time today and it’s Mickey’s first time at the rodeo. Do you mind giving an ear out? I’m sure they’ll be fine, but you know, just in case.”

“Sure, of course,” Gabriela nodded. Thusly assured, Alex took her own bracing breath and went off to work.

* * *

Mickey wriggled in place next to Ian and gave the redhead sidelong glances. Ian said nothing as he stared down at his hands and Mickey knocked Ian’s knee with his own.

“You know, you’re leaving yourself wide open to some killer ‘stuck in the closet’ jokes.”

Ian snorted out a laugh in spite of himself. “Yeah, I’m aware. You should have heard the shit Lip gave me after the first time I did it,” Ian said quietly. “Under the staircase back home, there’s this little cubby-hole. Most times you won’t even see it. Pretty decent hiding spot; just kinda blends into the background, you know? When my mom was around and in one of her funks, we’d find her under there sometimes. I used to think it was the dumbest thing; I’d get so pissed off. Cut to several years later and here I am. I am my mother, holy shit,” Ian said, his voice heavy with resignation. “You died today.”

“I really didn’t though.”

“It could have easily been you.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“But it could have been!” Ian snapped. “This is what you do, Mickey! You harass these people, you take their shit and you piss them off. If you keep pushing people, inevitably someone is going to push back!”

Mickey drew a hand across his forehead. “Yeah, this is what I do. This is one of the most basic ways the Outfit makes its money. It’s something I have to do. Shit, I was ripping off stores from the moment I could  walk and keep from dropping things. How am I supposed to avoid this? You said you understood—”

“I do understand and I’m fine with it, but I’m not fine!” Ian said before groaning in frustration and smacking his head against the back of the closet. “It’s the risk, Mickey. You’re blowing up cars and pissing off bodega owners and rival mobsters. Everyone’s mad at Sal, which means everyone’s mad at you, and that scares the shit out of me!” Ian confessed. He had been trying his best to manage his anxiety about Mickey and everything swirling around them, but his worries had been there in the background, piling on each day and coalescing. Between witnessing the car explosion and believing that Mickey had died, those anxieties had finally muscled their way to the forefront.

“This is part of why I need you to tell me things,” he continued, “because you’re trying to hide all the ugliness from me and you don’t understand that my mind creates things that are so much worse. I don’t care what you do as long as I know you’re safe when you do it.”

Mickey had no idea how to respond to that. He leaned into Ian and nipped at his shoulder as he thought things over. “What do you want me to do?”

Ian breathed out noisily. “Be a mechanic,” he said after a while, “be vanilla. Be a stay-at-home dad to the dogs we’ll get. I don’t even care as long as it’s safer than this.”

Mickey was still at a loss, but he stroked Ian’s thigh soothingly. “Are you ready to come out of the closet yet?” he teased, trying to lighten Ian’s mood even a little. “You need to eat and take your meds.” To his relief, Ian slowly nodded. He quickly got to his feet and extended his hand to help Ian out.

He got Ian to eat and watched while he took his medication. While Mickey cleaned up, he could see that Ian was still subdued and wiped out by the ordeal. After he was done, he nudged Ian into bed, only for Ian to drag him in as well. He complied readily, and stretched out on the bed so Ian could rest his head on his chest and snuggle close to him.

Ian sighed wearily as he listened to the comforting sound of Mickey’s steady heartbeat. He stared down at Mickey’s bare feet and hesitated to voice the thoughts that came to his head. After melting down and retreating to his closet, the last thing he wanted to do was pile on more crazy and freak Mickey out any further. However he decided to heed Dr. Lester’s advice and to trust a little more. “I, um, don’t think you should wear those shoes around me anymore,” he mumbled almost indiscernibly.

“Which shoes?”

“The really shiny brown ones with the laces?”

“What, the Ferragamo?”

“I don’t know what the fuck they are, Mick. Just…don’t wear them when you come to see me.”

Mickey did not ask the obvious question. Instead he gave his usual, if puzzled, response. “Yeah, okay.”

Ian plunged on, trying to expel everything and clear his mind. “And no getting arrested…and no dying either.”

“Ian, how am I supposed to promise something like that?”

“You just do, okay? I need you to; I’m not exactly operating in the realm of the rational right now.”

“How about I promise I’ll try my best to avoid incarceration and an untimely death, and no matter what goes down, I’ll find a way back to you?”

It was the best he was going to get. Ian closed his eyes and tried hopelessly to stave off the embarrassment that inevitably followed one of his crises. Even his most logical request must have sounded crazy and unreasonable, and it probably was just that. He couldn’t know for sure if he’d be triggered if and when he saw the shoes; it’s not as if Mickey actually died wearing them. But then he already knew he would have a hard time, because this was his life now. it felt like the more help he received and the more effort he made to deal with his illness, the more problems seemed to crop up and the more issues he had to deal with.

He never used to be this sensitive. The harder he tried to force himself to react and cope with stressful situations, the more devastating it was when he simply could not persuade his body and mind to cooperate. Sometimes it felt as if all the therapy and treatment only served to make him aware of how fucked up he was and how abnormal his behaviour appeared to everyone else. Normal people didn’t freeze up and run into closets when they discovered their loved one wasn’t dead. Normal people didn’t lay in bed, weirding out their boyfriends, while they clung to them and used them as some kind of emotional ballast. He knew better ways to behave, so why couldn’t he do it?

Mickey could feel Ian tensing as Ian’s grip tightened on his T-shirt. He stroked the red hair and massaged the back of Ian’s neck, but when Ian’s body started to coil tighter around his, Mickey threw a Hail Mary.

“So anyway,” Mickey said suddenly, “here’s Wonderwall.” Then without any further ado, he launched into a hair raising rendition. “Today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you…”

It certainly derailed Ian’s thoughts. Mickey was many wonderful things, but a beautiful singer didn’t appear to be one of them. At least not in this moment and certainly not at that volume.

“I don't believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now, mmph!” Mickey’s efforts were momentarily stifled when Ian—cringing so hard one eye was closed—covered his yowling boyfriend’s mouth. Not only did Mickey continue undeterred, but there then came the slightly muted but unmistakable sound of an accompanying acoustic guitar and Gabby singing along from across the wall.

“And all the roads we have to walk are winding, and all the lights that lead us there are blinding,” she wailed. Her guitar skills were impressive; her vocals, not so much. She might have been only marginally better than Mickey. Ian uncovered Mickey’s mouth and the latter quickly joined in with his new duet partner, while tapping on the wall to provide percussion. “Because maybe you're gonna be the one that saves me. And after all, you're my Wonderwall.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ian whispered as Mickey and Gabby continued their across-the-wall jam session with mutual gusto. Ian buried his face in Mickey’s shirt to cover his smile. His life was nothing but different shades of ridiculous, but at least the vibrations from Mickey’s chest felt amazing.

* * *

When Ian awoke, it was to the scent of Mickey’s burning cigarette, the feel of Mickey’s hand stroking his hair, and the sight of his boyfriend sitting up in bed next to him. Mickey was looking down at him with hooded eyes. It must have been close to midnight, and Ian rubbed at his face before shuffling closer to Mickey.

“What?” Ian asked thickly.

“I’m sorry I scared you today.”

Ian snorted softly, “I’m sorry I scared you too. Shit like that doesn’t happen often, I swear.”

“It’s okay. Everybody has their thing,” Mickey murmured.

“Have you been up and staring at me like a creep for long? That’s my job.”

Mickey laughed. “I’ve been up a while. I like looking at you. You’re a very pretty person.”

“I know,” Ian yawned.

“And humble too!”

Ian snorted rudely, “fuck humility. When you don’t have a lot going for you, you gotta be very aware of the assets you do have.”

“You’re out of your mind. You’ve got so much going for you besides the way you look,” Mickey said emphatically.

“You think so?” Ian asked as he coquettishly traced invisible patterns on Mickey’s thigh, “like what?”

Mickey stubbed out his cigarette and slid down to stretch out next to Ian. “Well, you’re ambitious, for one. You dream big and you go for it; I like that,” Mickey said and flipped onto his side to face Ian. “You’re relentless about getting what you want too. You’re a pit-bull dressed like a golden retriever.”

“That could be a negative in some ways…”

“Nah, fuck that. That’s how I know you’ll get what you want and that you’ll always be okay. ‘Fortune favours the bold,’ right? You should always go for what you want. Fuck anyone that tries to hold you back or stand in your way. Hmm, you’re brave—”

Ian burst out laughing, “now you’re just blowing smoke up my ass. I just spent several hours in a closet.”

“Don’t be dumb, that has nothing to do with being a coward. It’s like what I said, I mean after all the shit you go through and what you’ve dealt with, you’re still optimistic and things and dreaming big. That’s brave. It’s easier to just look at a bad situation and think to yourself that’s just how it’s always going to be and then just roll over and take it. You don’t do that. Plus, you’re sweet and you’re smart—you’re fucking wily as hell actually.”

“‘Wily,’ really grandpa? I would prefer ‘artful’ or ‘Machiavellian’ if you’re nasty,” Ian grinned when Mickey rolled his eyes.

“Whatever fruity thing you want to call it; but I’m into it.”

“You mean all that stuff?” Ian asked, his eyes alight as he stared at Mickey.

“I just fucking said it, didn’t I? Do I look like the type of person that goes around blurting out all that shit for kicks?”

“Man, you just keep racking up the points and the goodwill. At this rate, I won’t be able to lock shop on you until we’re like seventy.”

“You might have to let me stick it to you for a change just to even up the score a little,” Mickey joked.

“Well, you’d be the first to do it, so that’s got to be about triple points, right?” Ian yawned.

“What?”

“Hmm?”

Mickey sat up in bed, flicked on the light and looked down incredulously at Ian. “Wait, are you serious? Are you saying you’ve never taken it?”

Ian looked at Mickey askance. “Yes? I told you I’m a gold star top.”

“I honestly thought you just said that shit because you weren’t versatile and didn’t want to switch. How is this even remotely possible?!”

“Because I’m a top, end of story? I’ve never had any interest in bottoming. Blame Roger Spikey if you need a reason.”

“But I mean, not even once?!” Mickey gasped and Ian just shrugged. “Fingering, toys?”

“I tried fingering a few times, I guess, but I was always way more into my cock.”

Mickey could understand that; he’d met Ian’s cock. “But still, how do you know you don’t like it if you’ve never really tried it?”

“Oh please, not that lame ass argument. I can, with utter conviction, list a ton of things I’m not into without trying them. For instance, cannibalism—”

“Yeah, alright, but how about for empathy at least?” Mickey said feverishly, for he was now a man with a mission.

“What?”

“Yeah, it’s like when Jaynie was a toddler, right, and she’d just gotten her first set of teeth in. She would go around just biting the shit out of people!”

Ian laughed again, “what?”

“Seriously, she was a menace. Jaime was going out of his mind too. He was wondering if it was some kind of psychological thing manifesting because Jaynie’s whore mother had just taken off and left them for some Vegas casino owner. She’d bite people, he’d fret over it, and we all lived in terror. That is until one day when she bit Iggy.”

“Oh god.”

“Dude, he lost his mind and bit her right back. You should have seen the look on her face; it was priceless. Cured that shit instantly. I can’t believe none of us thought of that before.”

“And the moral of that insane story is…?”

“That we are better able to appreciate and understand shared experiences, Ian. Learning to empathize with the bottom can only help you grow as a top, you know.”

“Ah, so this is about my growth as a sexual partner and not about, say, you wanting to plant a flag in my ass? ‘Mickey Milkovich was here—the first, last and only?’”

Mickey sucked on his lower lip and raised a suggestive eyebrow. “I not going to lie, I do like the sound of that. Besides,” he said as he reached over to squeeze Ian’s ass through his boxers, “if you’re going to do it, it should be with someone who knows what he’s doing.”

Ian rolled his eyes, but it did nothing to hide his amusement. Mickey was looking at him like an eager, hopeful puppy and Ian was still riding the high from Mickey’s compliments and support. He chewed his lip and regarded Mickey coyly. “Suppose I don’t like it?”

“Then you don’t like it, but I’ll make it good for you.”

Ian rolled his eyes again at Mickey’s braggadocio even as he was, as always, charmed by it. “Okay.”

“Really?!”

Ian flipped onto his back and pulled off his boxers. “Before I change my mind, doofus.” He crossed his arms and stared up at the ceiling, deciding to just lie back and think of England. Mickey chuckled and gently turned Ian’s face so he could kiss him and relax him a bit.

Ian melted easily under the gentle pressure of Mickey’s kiss. He revelled in the feel of Mickey’s warm hand against his face, and the way Mickey’s thumb stroked his cheek. As the kiss deepened, Mickey’s hand fell away to stroke his chest and abdomen, before cupping his groin. Mickey rubbed his hand over Ian’s stirring cock until Ian’s hips jerked in a demand for more aggressive action. Mickey began stroking Ian’s cock as it grew hot and hard in his grasp.

Mickey shifted, pushing Ian back down onto his back once again and straddling him, careful not to break the kiss or break his rhythm has he stroked Ian. Ian plunged one hand into Mickey’s hair to hold him fast, while his other hand trailed down Mickey’s back to grope his ass. Ian groaned when Mickey pulled away and sat up, but was then distracted by Mickey reaching for the lube off the nightstand. He watched Mickey apprehensively as his boyfriend coated his fingers. He shuffled backwards a little as Mickey tossed the bottle into the rumple of sheets.

Mickey tried to hide his smile as he looked at his nervous boyfriend from beneath his lashes. He suddenly jabbed a finger hard towards Ian’s ass and the redhead scrambled back like a startled crab. Mickey lost his shit laughing.

“Oh you asshole!” Ian fumed, “I am not playing with you!”

“You’re such a virgin,” Mickey laughed, “will you calm your delicate tits? I’m going to be gentle. If you don’t like something or you want to quit, just go bananas,” he said, referring to Ian’s safe word.

“Jackass,” Ian grumbled, chagrined.

“Virgin,” Mickey drawled and bent forward to kiss Ian again. He worked his way down to lick and suck at Ian’s nipple until Ian’s hands were in his hair again, and Ian was moaning his name. It was almost enough to distract Ian from the finger slowly pushing into him—almost. He tensed at the intrusion, but Mickey’s lips were soon on his again and they were a very effective diversion. When Mickey introduced the second finger, he pulled back to look into Ian’s eyes. “Okay? How is it?”

“Weird,” Ian answered succinctly, his face red. “An okay weird?”

Mickey smiled and scissored his fingers, making Ian squirm. He moved down to settle between Ian’s thighs and swallowed around Ian’s cock as he picked up the pace with loosening Ian up. He sucked on Ian eagerly and drew shaky groans from his boyfriend, even as Mickey’s fingers moved faster and spread wider deep inside Ian.

Ian was lost to the moist, heat engulfing his cock and he thrust wantonly into Mickey’s mouth. Even the alien sensation of Mickey’s fingers up his ass was starting to feel strangely good. But then good became electric when Mickey’s fingers brushed against his prostate. “Oh shit, fuck!” Ian yelled as the feeling struck him. “Fuck,” he breathed again as the sensation ebbed. Mickey looked up at him, and really, it was neither here nor there that Mickey was deep-throating his cock, a look that smug was intolerable under any circumstance. Ian decided to let it slide though, because Mickey brushed his prostate again. Just when everything was coming together in glorious harmony, Mickey stopped everything and got off the bed.

“What the—where are you going?!” Ian demanded.

“Simmer down, slut, I’ll be right with you,” Mickey said, grinning maddeningly as he grabbed a tissue to clean his hand.

Ian covered his face with his hands and growled. “God, I hate you sometimes.”

“Aren’t you Irish-Catholic? You’re going to feel bad about saying that in a minute.”

“I was talking about you, you—” Ian trailed off when he looked to see Mickey rifling through the top of his closet and pulling down a very familiar duffle bag. He watched dumbstruck as Mickey pulled out one of his earthquake-inducing vibrators. “Oh hey, whoa, I did not sign up for all that noise. My ass is very vanilla. Can I just get dick please?”

“Man, if I had a nickel…” Mickey murmured, “the vibrator isn’t for you, idiot, but this is” he informed Ian before tossing something at him. Ian caught the small remote control and looked from it to his approaching boyfriend and back again. Mickey smirked as he climbed back into bed. “See, you can still run things from the bottom. Now watch how a pro does it.”

Ian watched with rapt attention as Mickey dispensed more lube into his hand. Just as before, he knelt between Ian’s thighs to take Ian’s flagging cock—which earned Ian a judgmental glare—into his mouth again. This time instead of preparing Ian while he swallowed Ian down, Mickey was preparing himself. Ian watched enthralled and impressed as Mickey reached back to loosen himself up. It felt far too soon when Mickey sat up and reached for his vibrator; Ian had been enjoying the show.

“I take longer than that to prepare you,” Ian grumbled as Mickey slicked the toy with some lube.

“Yeah, well life’s different when you’re flying solo,” Mickey told him. He knelt upright with his thighs apart and braced on one arm as he leaned forward and reached under to insert the vibrator. He had just gotten the tip in when it buzzed to life. He reflexively pulled it back out. “Ian!”

“Sorry,” said Ian the unapologetic, “premature activation. You know us virgins.”

Mickey gave him a warning glare and tried again. This time Ian was gracious enough to wait until it was halfway inside Mickey to turn it back on. Mickey retaliated by pinching him hard on the thigh. Ian laughed and ran his thumb over the remote. He was now fully on board with the idea.

“Blow me,” he ordered thickly and Mickey obeyed without hesitation. They locked eyes as Mickey took his time fellating Ian, and the latter—very deliberately—turned the vibrator up to the next level. Mickey’s resulting groan reverberated through Ian’s cock and made his toes curl. Mickey picked up the pace, moaning as he sucked on Ian harder and faster. When Ian impulsively kicked the vibrator up a notch, Mickey’s garbled curses almost sent Ian over the edge. At this rate, neither of them was going to make it to the fourth setting. 

Mickey knew they were both close and he pulled off again. “Can you turn it off for a bit?” When Ian turned off the toy, Mickey grabbed a pillow and tucked it under Ian’s hips. “Are you okay? Ready?”

Ian nodded and tried to stay relaxed and loose. He released a shuddering breath as Mickey started easing into him. Ian’s hands twisted into the sheets as Mickey kept going until he was fully seated.

“Breathe, idiot,” Mickey chided gently, “how’s it feel?”

“Weird,” Ian admitted once again, “but good weird.”

Mickey smiled and braced his hands on either side of Ian’s chest, “it’s going to feel better in a minute.”

Ian gripped Mickey’s hips as Mickey rolled them. Mickey repeated the motion, sticking to slow and gentle as he moved deep inside Ian. Ian’s breathing grew ragged and he dug his fingers into Mickey’s lower back as he was stretched and filled with each stroke. Before he could forget, he found the remote again and switched on Mickey’s vibrator.

Mickey’s breath stuttered as the toy came back to life and his hips jerked forward in response to it. Ian cried out as Mickey picked up the pace, the latter now spurred on by the stimulation of the sex toy and the amazing feel of Ian’s tight heat squeezing about him. His thrusts came harder and faster and the bed started its usual noisy rejoinder. Ian tugged Mickey, craving all the contact he could, and pulled him into a frantic kiss. Mickey kept upping his pace, gripping the headboard for leverage with one hand while he stroked and squeezed Ian’s thigh with the other. Mickey shifted a little with each stroke until Ian was gasping against his lips.

“There,” Ian groaned sharply, “oh fuck, right there!”

Mickey kept aim until Ian was clawing at his back and yelling his name above the sounds of Mickey’s own cries and the sound of the creaking bed. Mickey’s rhythm staggered when the vibrations inside him suddenly intensified at Ian’s bidding. He relinquished his hold of the headboard, letting it slam with abandon into the wall. Mickey bunched the sheets in his hands and buried his face in Ian’s neck as he pounded into his boyfriend.

Ian’s hands were everywhere, in Mickey’s hair, clawing down his back, groping Mickey’s ass as he urged him on. The weirdness of the initial feeling had burned away and he was lost to the intensity and pleasure of the moment and his closeness to Mickey. He whispered broken “I love you’s” as he neared the edge, and thrilled in every one he heard back. Another thrust against his prostate and the feel of Mickey’s teeth sinking into his shoulder and Ian was gone—coming hard with another shout of Mickey’s name.

The moment Mickey felt Ian begin to orgasm, he let go, already well past his limit. He came with hard grunt and a groan, finding mutual release with Ian and riding it out to the end. One last thrust and somehow the bottom of the world fell away and they were freefalling through space.

“What the fuck?!” was all Mickey could manage as the bed also reached its limit and made an unnatural noise before literally falling apart. The bed frame cracked and the mattress crashed to the floor with the two men still entwined on top of it.

“Holy shit,” Ian laughed when the world stopped rocking, “I think—I think we broke the bed.”

As incredible as that was, Mickey had more pressing matters on his mind. “Could you turn it off now, please?” he asked shakily.

“Oh shit, yeah, sorry.” Ian groped for the remote that had skittered under the radiator. Finally, Mickey could sag with relief. After a while, he gingerly pulled out of Ian and tried to give Ian a little space on the lopsided bed. “Now all that remains is to find out if you’re a dumper or a slow drip.”

“What?” Ian asked, bemused. In the next moment, however, the confusion on his face gave way to one of alarm. “What the fuck?!” Ian squeaked as he clenched as hard as he could and awkwardly scrambled to get to the bathroom.

“Yup,” Mickey said and reclined on the broken bed as best as he could, “just as I suspected.”

* * *

Later that morning, after they had managed to get cleaned up and dressed, the two men stood at the foot of the demolished bed and contemplated it silently. Ian regarded it with crossed arms and an arched brow, while Mickey scratched at his neck. It was Mickey who broke the silence.

“Looks like the chassis broke,” he mumbled awkwardly.

“Beds don’t have chassis, you invading Hun. You broke my bed.”

Mickey immediately started sputtering, “how are you gonna blame me for this? That bed has been on its last legs since before we were born!”

“You broke my bed.”

“What, like you weren’t there? Like you didn’t contribute anything to this? Like the thousand times I was the one getting drilled had no effect at all?”

Ian shook his head and tutted at the disgrace of it. “Think about all the things this bed has seen: two world wars, the fall of the Berlin Wall, Woodstock, the Moon Landing… Endured all of that just to be taken out by Mickey Milkovich and his raging wang. You are Mickey—destroyer of worlds. Are you proud of what you’ve done here today?”

Mickey was fighting back laughter, “Shut up! I didn’t—”

“You broke my hymen and you broke my bed!”

Mickey lost it and doubled over laughing. Ian couldn’t keep back his own laughter as Mickey covered his face with his hands and continued cracking up. As far as Ian was concerned, this was the real Mickey—the man who was unabashed about a bag full of sex toys, but blushed crimson with fluster when Ian teased him about their private moments. The man who could say and do the sweetest things without even thinking about it. Ian could only guess at all the personas Mickey had to create and adopt to get through his life, but no one could convince Ian that the Mickey that was his, wasn’t the one Mickey really wanted to be—not even the man himself.

“Well, what are you going to do about this?” Ian demanded when Mickey’s laughter died down.

“Okay, even though it’s totally not my fault, I guess I could hook you up with a replacement. You’d be surprised at the things that fall off trucks.”

Ian hesitated at that, “hey, I don’t want you to—”

“Relax, it’s friendly; there won’t be a problem. I’ll get one to you by the end of the day,” Mickey assured Ian, “I’ll call you when it’s coming. You’re going to have to tough it out for a few hours without a bed.” Mickey checked his watch, “alright, I gotta head out.”

“Oh,” Ian said and watched as Mickey tugged on his shoes and went to get his jacket out of the closet. As Mickey slid on his jacket, Ian impulsively grabbed him and hugged him close. “Remember what you promised,” Ian murmured into Mickey’s shoulder, and Mickey sighed softly before pulling back to kiss Ian goodbye.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Mickey said as he gently head butted Ian. “Don’t break in the new bed without me, alright?”

Mickey finally managed to leave the apartment, only for his phone to ring before he even got to the elevator. It was Jaime with an update, and once again the bubble popped and reality came flooding in.

“Johnnie’s out of the hospital already and he’s already on a rager about his car and the ‘attempted hit.’”

Mickey sighed and hit the button, glancing back anxiously to make sure Ian hadn’t followed him out. It felt as if he had left all his happiness back in the apartment with Ian, and once outside it, the weight of all the crap in his life kept threatening to crush him. It was only going to get worse.

“What’s he saying?”

“He’s thinking it’s the bikers just like you said he would. Here’s hoping it stays that way.”

* * *

It was early in the afternoon when Mickey called Ian to tell him that the new bed was already on its way. Ian had been looking at the broken bed all morning, vacillating between sentimental mourning and perverse pride over its destruction. The feelings intensified now that he knew the bed would be gone within an hour or two and suddenly, all Ian wanted was someone to appreciate the magnitude of the moment with him.

“It’s open!” Gabby yelled when Ian knocked on her door.

He popped his head inside to see her sitting in bed surrounded by papers. “Mickey and I totally broke the bed last night and he’s sending some guys to replace it. Wanna see it before it goes?”

“Do I?!” Gabby squealed and bounded out of her apartment after Ian. She pressed her hand to her mouth and her eyes grew huge as she took in the partially collapsed bed. “Dude…”

Ian tried not to beam as she reverently circled the bed. “I mean it was super old,” Ian began to demur, “and it’s been creaky and dying forever. It was probably going to fall apart when I tossed my next textbook on it.”

“Ian, no, do not short-change your accomplishment. You and Mickey wrecked this shit, dude. These are my life goals right here,” Gabriela said and made Ian laugh when she snapped a picture. “Ugh, when will I ever?! Victor needs to step his fucking game up, I swear to Mother Gaia. The only piece of furniture I’ve ever destroyed is that chair I broke over my ex-brother-in-law’s back. And In my defence, he was being a complete twat at the time,” she said and snapped another picture. “Putting these on my ‘sinspiration’ board…‘sexpiration’? Eh, I’ll work on it.”

“You didn’t hear when it happened?” Ian asked sheepishly, “we were kind of, um, loud.”

“Ugh, finals. I left for a study sleepover after our jam session,” she told him. “What are you going to do with this?” she asked, nodding to the bed.

“The guys are just going to take it away, so I don’t know. Mrs. J almost got on my ass about it, but she’s fine now that she knows it’s being replaced. I’m kinda sad to see it go.”

Gabby nodded with heartfelt sympathy, “I can only imagine. Heck, I’m devastated and I’m just a bystander. It deserves such an awesome send off, like maybe burning it like a Viking or an old flag. There should be an Arlington type cemetery for beds like this that fought the good fight, seriously,” she sighed.

Ian smiled as Gabby continued her ode to the bed. He knew she would understand.

* * *

That night Mandy found her brother in the basement ignoring the TV and with an ashtray full of cigarettes in front of him. He was deep in his thoughts and didn’t even register her until she took a cigarette from his pack and swiped his lighter. She sat next to him and lit up.

“Not heading over to Ian tonight?”

“Can’t, we’ve got trucks to unload and stuff to move. Jaime’s picking me up in an hour,” he explained. “You heard about Benny Santucci?”

“Yeah, crazy huh? That was in Dre’s neighbourhood too, right? You never know when one of those towel-heads might snap on you,” Mandy said. “Sucks for him.”

“Ian thought it was me,” Mickey said. “I guess he had on shoes like mine or something.”

“Fuck, did he freak out?”

“He freaked the fuck out,” Mickey sighed, “you don’t even understand.”

Mandy gave a small smile. The whole thing was sort of bittersweet. “I kinda figured he would if something went down. It’s one thing to be Southside hard; it’s another thing to be a mob wife. It’s nice that he cares about you so much.”

“It’s hell on him,” Mickey said quietly, “he told me to promise him that I’d never die or get arrested.”

Mandy snorted, “ok, that’s just precious,” she laughed before she noticed how sombre Mickey was being. She glanced again at the overflowing ashtray and shuffled as close to her brother as they both could stand. “Any word from slimy Salvatore yet?”

“Nope,” Mickey burped and took another sip of his beer, “still on his secret sabbatical and leaving me with all his shit.”

“What’s the plan if he doesn’t come back? If he overdoses or gets stabbed or something?”

“He’ll come back eventually.”

“You sure?” Mandy asked, “maybe he pissed off to the same place Terry did. Is there any way we can cover our asses if—”

“He’ll come back,” Mickey snapped, “and I’ll keep things afloat until he does. He’ll come back.”

Mandy gave her brother a sidelong glance as she pulled on her cigarette. She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. She wondered if they were to spend the rest of their lives this way—just a couple of kids always waiting for their dad to come home.

* * *

The following morning, Alex arched her brow at Ian’s slight grimace as he exited the bus. He gave her a dazzler of a smile, but he was definitely not moving at his normal pace as they headed towards the supermarket. Alex was immediately suspicious. Ian had had a rather tough time and she was well aware of most of his coping mechanisms, including the harmful ones.

“You pushed it too hard with exercising again, didn’t you?” she chided, “I thought Mickey stayed with you.”

“Oh, he did and this is totally his fault,” he said cheerfully, confusing her further. “So quick summary: had sex, broke bed, no longer a gold star top. What’s going on in your neck of the woods?”

“Son of a bitch! Why is your life like this? I hate you and I kind of want details. Was it good?” she asked, “did he turn you out? Are you all versatile now?”

“Fuck yes; yes, but don’t tell him that; and I guess I will be on special occasions?” Ian admitted with a grin, “look, I’m so not versatile, but he can get it if he wants it badly enough.”

“Ugh, god I need to get laid,” Alex groaned.

“Haven’t even gotten to first base with Dre yet?”

Alex’s face flushed red and she sputtered unintelligibly before choking out, “what?! I don’t—what do you—”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know you’re crushing on him. You just don’t want to admit it to me because you don’t want to lose the moral high ground when you’re criticising me and Mickey.”

“Ian Gallagher, that is not—”

“She’s in love with a dealer. He blazing, he rolling, he rolling” he sang before taking off running to the safety of their workplace. Alex could find nothing to throw in time. It was incredible how fast he was even with a sore ass.

* * *

It was close to lunch time when Mandy Milkovich strolled into the supermarket. Alex had never seen the girl before, but she dinged her as a Milkovich the moment she walked in. They certainly had a mystique about them. Like her brother, there was the smug swagger and the knowing smile when she spotted Ian behind the cash register. Unlike her brother, there was no disappearing into the aisles nonsense. She practically skipped over to Ian’s register and waited in line, allowing others to go ahead of her until there was a lull.

“Hey nerd,” she greeted Ian, “Mickey told me you worked here, but I had to see for myself.”

“Hi, Mandy,” Ian said before nodding to Alex, “Alex, this is Mandy, Mickey’s sister. Mandy, this is Alex, my best friend and co-worker.”

“Oh wow, this is the first time I’ve scored an intro,” Alex gasped and extended a hand to Mandy, “usually, he just flirts for a minute and then runs off to bang them in the parking lot while wordlessly telling me to go fuck myself,” she told Mandy while Ian rolled his eyes.

“It’s the shared testosterone, it gives them the vapours. My brother’s the same way; turns into a giddy bitch when some hot dick’s around.”

“Disgraceful,” Alex said, shaking her head sadly.

“Pathetic,” Mandy agreed. When Alex returned to dealing with customers, Mandy eyed Ian. “So what’s a girl got to do to score a free lunch around here?”

* * *

It was a lovely day, so Ian bought their food and he took his break to have lunch with Mandy in a nearby park. He had been suspicious the moment he saw Mandy walking into the supermarket and his suspicions were not abating. Mandy tucked into her food immediately, not yet fully readjusted to eating at her leisure. She managed some light banter as they ate, but once she was done, Ian knew he was about to learn the reason for her visit.

“So Mickey told me you thought he died?” she said abruptly.

Ian laughed nervously, “uh yeah. The news didn’t say who the dead guy was and I sort of—”

“Freaked out?” Mandy supplied helpfully.

“Ah, I don’t—I don’t always handle bad surprises very well.”

Mandy rifled through her bag for her cigarettes. “Nah, it’s understandable. You think you see someone you love laid out like that, anyone would freak,” she said as she lit up. She took a deep drag of her cigarette and regarded Ian silently for a while. “Mickey tell you how many times he’s been shot?”

That question had Ian sitting up straighter on the bench. “I… no?”

“First time was when he was sixteen, I think. Bodega owner like the one on the news. Sal had just started Mickey on shakedowns and he didn’t have that rhythm yet, you know? He was doing too much, pushed too far maybe. He swiped a bunch of Snickers bars just to show he could,” Mandy laughed, “but that turned out to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Fucker came up with a gun and shot Mickey in the leg.”

“He never told me that,” Ian said softly.

“It’s not the sexiest pillow talk, I guess,” Mandy shrugged, “but at least he learned not to fuck with the mom and pop types too much. They can be pretty unpredictable. The next time I think was the following year, maybe. They were robbing this place they thought was empty until the old bat woke up and came out blasting. Got an ass full of buckshot. Now that made him mad, because you know how he feels about his ass. He’s so lucky Linda’s good and that he doesn’t scar easily, because he’d be looking like a modern art piece by now. I swear to god, he gets either shot or pistol whipped like almost every year. Last year, this crazy bitch od’d at one of Sal’s parties and he told Mickey to dump her. She comes back from the fucking dead and comes for Mickey’s ass. Chasing him through the Southside, shooting the whole time like her name was Annie Oak—”

“Mandy, why are you telling me this?!” Ian snapped. He couldn’t understand how she could so casually list out Mickey’s injuries and close calls like that. It was horrifying and was nauseating him.

“Because this is the life,” Mandy said simply, “this is what it’s like all the time. We’re criminals and scumbags and life treats us just like that. If you’re going to have a meltdown every time something feels like it’s going wrong, not only are you in for the worst time, you’re a liability. You think anybody has time to be worrying about your fragile feelings when the cops are on our asses?”

“I’m not trying to be a liability,” Ian said. “I love him and I just want him to be safe. I understand what he has to do and the things that could happen to him, but I can’t stop worrying like that. I can’t control how I feel about things!”

“I know that, Ian, but here’s the thing that everyone who marries into this shit has to learn. You only get to fall apart two times: when the judge tells you they’re going away for good and when the coroner hands you their personal effects. That’s it; you can lose your shit all you want when that happens. Until then though, you keep it together. It’s ride or die and if things go sideways, we need to know you can hold shit down as opposed to going off the deep end.”

“Jesus,” Ian said, trying to control his agitation. He was feeling attacked and like his mental health was being put on trial. “I can’t help how I feel and it’s hard to control how I respond to things sometimes. You can’t ask me to just switch off who I am!”

“And I’m not asking you to,” Mandy said and leaned forward to cover Ian’s hand with her own. “You shouldn’t have to change who you are, at all. You’re sweet and you’re caring and you’re sensitive, and all of that’s amazing and wonderful. But this kind of life is ugly and relentless, and it’s going to be a constant hell for someone like you. You say you’re down for all of this, but have you really thought it through? You should think about what’s best for you. Maybe one of those preppy, pretty boys on campus has a wild streak in him that could work for you…”

Mandy could tell from the way Ian’s look suddenly changed that she might have overplayed her hand too much and too soon. She trailed off, unsure how best to proceed next, but she knew that Ian had sorted the rest for himself.

“I’ll think about it,” Ian said shortly and stood to leave, “I need to get back to work.”

* * *

Mickey stared down into the open hood of the Studebaker Commander while he waited for Tommy to show up. It had taken months of work, but all that should be left now were the final touches from the finisher before the car would be on its way home. Mickey had completed the engine work and he just needed Tommy to sign off on it so he could bid the car a tender farewell and focus his efforts on the Renault before more major projects rolled into the shop.

Tommy clapped him on the back, startling Mickey out of his thoughts. Since the day Sal had given him permission to work at the garage, Tommy had been teaching Mickey all he could about the fine art of automotive restoration. Tommy was a short, wiry man, with a mane of unkempt silver hair and a walrus moustache covering his tanned, weathered face. His moustache twitched as he looked under the hood.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. Like Mickey, Tommy treated cars like a religious experience. “Reckon she’s ready? Start her up then,” he said when Mickey nodded.

Mickey moved to the side of the car and leaned forward to start it up. The engine cranked but ultimately failed to turn over. Mickey huffed, paused and tried again; the car had started up just fine earlier. He tried to start the engine again and as the machine struggled, Mickey felt his nerves fray. He tried again and met with the same result.

“Fuck!” Mickey yelled.

“Relax, what are you getting all worked up for? It’s probably something simple,” Tommy said and patted Mickey on the back soothingly. He tried to start the engine with no success.

“It was working this morning!”

“Yeah, I know. Let’s check the plugs.”

Before they could go further, one of the metal work guys came to Mickey. “Hey, Mickey, someone’s here to see you. Um, that tall, redheaded dude?”

Mickey licked his lips nervously and nodded. He excused himself from Tommy and headed out to the front where Ian was waiting outside. Mickey glanced behind him a few times to make sure no one was close by, From the set of Ian’s chin, he knew he was in for hell.

“Hey,” he greeted Ian a touch breathlessly, “uh, what’s up?”

“You sent your sister to scare me off, really?” Ian asked him point blank. The guilty dip of Mickey’s eyes was all the confirmation Ian needed. He shook his head in disbelief. “Unreal… that was a bitch move, any way you cut it. Fuck, you’re freaked out, right? You’ve had time to think about it and now you’re freaked out. Alex said this would happen the first time I—”

“I’m not freaked out; that is not what this is,” Mickey said, cutting Ian off quickly.

“Then what the fuck, Mickey?”

“You were shaken up so bad and… everything’s going to shit and I don’t think it’s going to get better anytime soon, or ever,” Mickey babbled while Ian glared at him with narrowed eyes, “I’m trying to figure out what’s the right thing.”

“Oh fuck you; this isn’t just about protecting me. Everything’s going to shit, you feel like you’re flaming out, and all you want is one less thing to have to worry about. Naturally, the crazy boyfriend who hides in closets is gonna draw the short straw,” Ian said. “So sending your sister, showing me that car exploding… that was all to chase me off because you’re too fucking scared to even try and imagine a life with me outside of Sal and all his shit. So I get booted? That’s how this goes?”

Mickey rubbed at his face, surreptitiously rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You want me safe? Well I want you safe too and the safest thing isn’t me. I can’t promise you any of the things you need, but I can’t let you go either. I can’t let you go; not unless you—”

“Not unless I decide to walk away?” Ian filled in. “Mickey, it’s not like I don’t get it; I do. All the stuff you have to deal with, I don’t want to saddle you with the crazy boyfriend either, but this is real; we’re real. Aren’t we?”

“… Yes.”

“You love me?” Ian asked, his voice cracking in the middle of the question.

“Yes, you know I do, but—”

“But what, you love Sal more? This life you lead is more important?” Ian asked him, “I’m not first place with you either, am I? I thought it would be different with you. I really thought you were different, but I do keep choosing the same guys over and over again, don’t I? You’re just another unavailable closet case. Let me know when you decide what your right thing is going to be,” Ian said before he turned and walked off, leaving Mickey alone in the middle of the parking lot.

* * *

That night, Ian sat on the floor, propped up against the kitchen counter and gazed heavy-lidded at his new bed. Mickey had yet to see it, let alone sleep in it, and Ian wondered when next it would happen. He lit up his blunt, took a puff, and ignored the phone vibrating on the floor next to him. He had lost count of the number of times Mickey had called and he had avoided them all. Ian didn’t know if it was because he was angry at Mickey or because he was scared Mickey was calling to finally end it. Either way, he wasn’t in the space to talk to Mickey tonight. As Mandy/Mickey suggested, he had some thinking to do. Eventually, he picked up the phone and dialled.

“Ian?” the voice that answered was both eager and disbelieving.

“Hey,” Ian drawled, “what’s up?”

“I’m a little surprised you called actually,” came the honest and bashful answer, “I thought you’d washed your hands of me completely.”

“I’m not the one that ran off to god knows where, am I?” Ian retorted, “if anyone should be crying abandonment…”

“I’d have taken you with me if I thought you’d come,” Sal said, “I just needed a little breather from that life, Ian. Things get on top of you. It’s like they’re threatening to crush you.”

 _Yet you had no problems leaving Mickey to get flattened by it,_ Ian thought ruefully. “I understand that, I guess.”

“How are you? What are you doing?”

“Nothing much really; exams are winding down. Broke my bed the other day,” he added offhandedly.

“How the fuck did you do that?! What were you doing?”

“I was flat on my back at the time, actually. The bed was old as the hills, but it probably just got tired of me. Everything does eventually; my family, my furniture, lovers…”

“No, never; never you, amore mio. You own me.”

The pathetic thing about it was that Ian believed him. Granted, the clock was ticking loudly on that. Sooner rather than later, Sal’s inexplicable obsession and infatuation with him would be consumed and forgotten by the relentless power of Sal’s addictions and demons. For now, though, in that moment, Salvatore was still his creature.

“Do you need a new bed?”

“Nah, Super took care of it already. Don’t worry about it.”

“I worry all the time. That place is a rat hole. You deserve so much better.”

“Maybe,” Ian sighed forlornly, “but what other choice is there?”

* * *

It was late in the evening when Mickey finally made it back to the pool house the following day. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Ian since their fight at the garage. He had gone to Ian’s apartment, only to find that the locks had been changed and his key no longer worked. He had stopped himself from breaking in, but now he starting to get frantic and he had no clue as to what to do.

He went upstairs and paused as he rounded the stairs. The lights were on in Mandy’s room and there was a piece of luggage just inside the door. For a moment, he thought Sal was back home, or else Mandy had reclaimed her room. When he got to the open door, it was not his boss or his sister, but rather a certain tall redhead, diligently unpacking his suitcase that was open on the bed.

At the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, Ian’s heartbeat had started racing. He had played dozens of scenarios for how this would go, and the vast majority of them had not ended well. When Mickey appeared at the door, Ian had swallowed, wiped his damp palms on his jeans and turned to a thunderstruck Mickey with an uncertain, over-bright smile.

“Hi, honey, I’m home.”   


	26. Kryptonite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank everyone who left a kind thought and some comfort, whether on AO3, Tumblr or wherever. You guys are amazing and it meant so much. Thank you for your patience and understanding as well. I won't lie, writing (well everything) feels pretty weird right now, but I 'm trying to get back into the groove of things. Please continue to bear with me while I sort myself out.

Ian had been anticipating a number of Mickey’s reactions. He had expected yelling, for one—definitely yelling—then some fuming and threats, maybe some coercion to get him to go home. What he had not anticipated was Mickey’s white-knuckled silence as the man pushed the Mustang beyond city limits. Ian gave Mickey a cautious glance, contemplated saying something, but took in the grim set of Mickey’s jaw and thought better of it. Instead, Ian looked out the window as trees, buildings, cars and people whizzed past as they plunged forward into the night.

He had no clue where they were going—he doubted Mickey did either—and Ian was left wondering if Mickey was simply planning to dump him somewhere in the hopes Ian wouldn’t  be able to find his way back; a Hansel and Gretel type plan, perhaps. If that was the case, the joke was on Mickey. Ian couldn’t count the times he had found himself stranded, far from home, with little resource with which to get back. He’d always managed to find a way, and most of those times, he hadn’t even had the advantage of being lucid.

Maybe his plan had worked, Ian mused as his thought process segued down another path. Maybe his move in had been the straw that had finally broken the camel’s back, and Mickey had simply decided to grab Ian and run. Another stealthy look over at Mickey thoroughly squashed that hope. The gears in Mickey’s head were spinning away, but Ian knew they had nothing to do with escape; they most likely had everything to do with offloading Ian.

They didn’t get very far out of town, Mickey’s need to start venting ultimately winning out over everything else. Mickey pulled into the next empty, open lot and parked. He was immediately out of the car and pacing like a caged animal, while Ian paused to take a steadying breath before exiting the car himself.

“What the fuck, Ian?” Mickey voice started off as a low growl, but Ian knew the storm was brewing. “What the fuck?!”

Ian sat on the hood of the car and shrugged as Mickey’s eyes bored into him. “Sal told me to move in; what could I do?” he explained, “no one says no to Sal ever, right?”

Mickey inhaled sharply, “don’t you do that, don’t you fucking—” Mickey bit his tongue and turned to walk it off a bit before giving up and rounding on Ian. “Don’t you act like this isn’t you! This is all you! Sal doesn’t know his right from his fucking left right now. Don’t you sit there and act like this isn’t you!” Mickey thundered and Ian only lifted his chin and stared him down coolly and unapologetically. Mickey wasn’t done. “You’re going home,” he promised, “you’re going home if I have to drag you—”

“I am home,” Ian said.

“No, you’re fucking not! You’re in your mobbed up, geriatric lover’s house, ten steps away from where his homicidal wife lives. How the hell is that your home, Ian?!”

“You’re there,” Ian responded simply and sincerely, and it went a long way in taking some of the hot wind out of Mickey’s righteously indignant sails.

Mickey was momentarily stymied and he stared at Ian helplessly for the moment. He sucked on his lower lip and tried again. “Look, okay, I know the point you’re trying to make here and I know it was dumb to try and scare you off like that, but we can figure it out. But you can’t literally move into this shit to make a point. We’ll move you back into your apartment and—”  

“Mick, it's a dirt cheap apartment in a college town and it's nearing the beginning of the summer semester," Ian pointed out. "That room was gone before I even finished talking to the landlord. I barely had time to pack before she changed the locks on me. That apartment is gone.”

“That was our place. The pool house and everything in it belongs to Sal. That apartment was ours, Ian,” Mickey gritted out.

“Anywhere can be ours. We don't need that particular apartment. Plus you weren't so attached to it a few days ago when you were trying to scare me into ending things.”

Mickey ran a hand over his face in exasperation. “Fine, we'll get another place. I know people who can hook us up. In fact, just because that apartment is gone doesn't mean we can't get it back—”

“No,” Ian said, stopping Mickey mid-stream. “I'm not leaving. I'm not going to just sit back quietly while you ghost me and our relationship out of some misguided attempt to save me from your life. You want me away from Sal and this whole situation so badly, then we have to figure out a way for the both of us to get out. I'm not going anywhere—not without you.”

Ian watched helplessly as Mickey ran his hands through his hair in wordless frustration. He tried to soften the hard line of his words to soothe Mickey as best as he could without surrendering ground. He slid off the hood and gingerly approached Mickey.

“Mick, we can figure this out together. I’m not fucking off and leaving you in this. I know you want out of this mess and I want you to be happy too—”

“As long as I’m happy with you?” Mickey asked pointedly, “happy doing what you want or else fuck it, right?” Mickey shook his head and scoffed. “You’re shitting on Sal and all you want to do is take his place as the main voice in my head—telling me what to do and what to think. I need that like I need a fucking hole in my head. I already have to listen to Jaime and Mandy and Svetlana and million other fuckers and now you want to come in and start screaming the loudest,” Mickey murmured in his agitation while Ian stared at him nonplussed.

“That isn’t remotely fair,” Ian shot back, “you can’t seriously compare my feelings for you with the Freudian head trip Sal’s pulling on you. Mickey, we can—”

“You know what, I don’t give a shit anymore,” Mickey said as he rubbed roughly at his own face, distorting his features as frustration and angry impotence ate away at him. For the first time in ages, he felt at sea about what his next move should be. He was floundering—a soldier without a general and no clear orders—and the one clear directive he had given himself, to chase Ian away to safety, had been thwarted by the very person he had been trying to save. “I’m done; do whatever you want. You can step in as interim capo while Sal’s on his sabbatical for all the fuck I give. I’m done.”

Ian watched wordlessly as Mickey walked off. The man only went a short distance, choosing to take a seat under the nearest tree and reach for cigarette. Ian sighed and sat again on the hood of the car, deciding it was probably best to give Mickey some space for a while.

Beneath the tree, Mickey pulled on his cigarette and tried to will the world and its constant upheavals to fade away. He longed for the sensation of slipping underwater, craving that moment when everything receded and there was nothing but quiet. Instead, he sat chain-smoking beneath the tree, staring at the night sky and doing his best to ignore his boyfriend and the absolute shit-show his life had become. He lost track of time, though he could never quite lose track of Ian in his peripheral vision. Eventually, Ian started growing antsy and Mickey’s attention was pulled back to his boyfriend despite his best efforts.

“It’s getting kind of late,” Ian said apologetically, “I need to eat something and take my meds.”

The ride back home was in excruciating silence, which continued even when Mickey pulled up before the pool house. Ian hesitated before he got out, waiting for some indication of their standing from Mickey. The man in question was busy lighting up another cigarette and refusing to even look at him. So when Ian finally gave up and got out, he wasn’t surprised when Mickey simply peeled off again and disappeared into the night. Still, all things considered, it had gone better than Ian had expected.

* * *

It was in the wee hours of the morning when Mickey finally returned to the house. He had half expected to find Ian on the couch waiting for him and the man’s absence inexplicably irked him even more. He glared sullenly at his new neighbour’s closed bedroom door and fought the urge to slam his loudly in protest. He closed his door quietly instead and stripped down to his boxers to crawl into bed. In spite of everything, there was comfort in knowing that he could almost time it to the second when Ian would tentatively push his door open.

“Hey,” Ian said uncertainly as he hovered by the door, backlit by the passage light. “You okay?”

Mickey said nothing and kept staring at his ceiling while Ian shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot.

“I can’t sleep unless you’re touching me,” Ian said softly and Mickey covered his face with his hands and muttered an incredulous “Jesus Christ” under his breath. This had to be what kryptonite felt like to Superman. It was impossible and it was completely unfair. Ian pressed home his advantage. “I know you can’t sleep either…”

Mickey sighed heavily and his eyes flicked over to Ian before going back to stare at the ceiling. It was all the encouragement Ian was going to get. Fortunately, that was all the encouragement he needed. He climbed into bed, shuffling as close to Mickey as he dared. He had never been in Mickey’s bed before and despite the fraught uncertainty of the moment, there was no denying the small thrill that came with it for both of them. A minute later, Mickey cracked and flipped onto his side to face his puppy-eyed boyfriend.

“What am I supposed to do with you?” Mickey asked bleakly, “what am I supposed to do?”

Ian reached up to stroke Mickey’s face tenderly. “We’ll figure this out; I promise. You just have to give us a chance.”

It wasn’t long before they were making love. They had kicked the sheets off the bed and the rest of their clothing had been tossed aside, and Mickey sighed as Ian surged against him and their fingers interlaced. “I love you,” Ian moaned against the column of Mickey’s throat, making the latter gasp and groan as Ian thrust deeply into him. “I love you,” Ian assured him as Mickey’s heels dug into the back of Ian’s thighs and he arched against Ian’s body. “I love you,” Ian whispered sincerely, just before it all went to hell.

“Ian? That you?” the voice was thick, slurred and uncertain, and it froze them both instantly. They scrambled to separate, but Ian hadn’t even managed to tumble off the bed before the door was crashing open. “What the fuck?!”

Ian barely managed to get a hand on his discarded boxers to yank them on as Sal barrelled inside. Mickey wasn’t even as lucky, naked and caught in mid-movement on the bed and struck stationary by Sal’s entrance. All three men were now stock-still, caught in stasis within an excruciating moment; each one afraid to move and usher in the mayhem that was sure to follow.

Sal’s face betrayed his utter, overwhelming confusion. He simply could not make sense of the scene before him. His eyes darted from Mickey to Ian, and his brain worked painfully to catch up and process. It was akin to seeing the sun shining at midnight. His brow furrowed, his mouth moved slowly and—realizing that Sal was returning to life—the two young men both struggled to draw his fire from the other.

“Sal, it’s not—” Ian began.

“No, we weren’t—” Mickey spoke over him, and managed to pull Sal’s attention.

“You?” Sal croaked, unsure of what he was even asking. “But you’re not… how the fuck is this even…” Sal sputtered and stalled before his confusion gave way to the inevitable blinding, white-hot rage. His mind registered the betrayal, even if he was yet to understand the nature and complexities of it. He had been betrayed and betrayed terribly, never mind how, and his body responded accordingly. “You fucking rat!” Sal roared and took after Mickey like a bat out of hell.

It seemed like there was no time to react. One second, Sal looked as if he was on the verge of an aneurysm, and the next, Sal’s hand was around Mickey’s throat, shoving him into the bed while his fist came down like a hammer. Sal’s roaring filled Mickey’s ears, and with each blow that landed, Mickey could feel something give—the loosening and cracking of his teeth, the blood suddenly filling his nasal passages. It took a second to realize that he was being pistol whipped; his mentor bent on doing serious and lasting damage.

“Get off him!”

Ian was screaming, adding to the cacophony and chaos of the room. He managed to haul Sal away, the mobster bellowing like a wounded beast the whole time. Sal stopped struggling against Ian’s hold and used his full weight to ram Ian hard into the solid doors of Mickey’s closet. Ian gasped painfully and loosened his grip, and Sal staggered free.

“You fucking—you pieces of shit,” Sal wheezed and waved the gun about crazily. He didn’t know who to focus on; had no idea what to do with all this rage. “I’ll—you—how dare you?!” On instinct, he swung towards Mickey, his general, his prince, the one person who belonged to him, who should have been incapable of betrayal.

Mickey struggled to move on the bed, still dazed and disoriented from the brutal beating. The world came into focus just in time to see Sal swinging a gun on him and Ian reaching out and screaming for him to stop. Ian’s distraction was too effective and Sal abruptly swung back, ready to defend against Ian’s charge, with his gun going off in a deafening explosion.

There was no soaring music, or the slow, graceful collapse as a body fell to earth and the life ebbed away from it. It was brutal, ugly and instant. One moment Ian was alive and there and in the next instant he wasn’t. The light switched off behind the green eyes and his body crumpled heavily to the floor, his limbs giving way at grotesque angles.

“No,” Mickey moaned softly in the sudden quiet of the room, but for Sal’s harsh breathing. “No, no…” he continued whispering as he crawled towards the foot of the bed.

“Look what you made me do,” Sal said shakily as he gaped at Ian’s fallen body and the rapidly spreading blood stain. He aimed the gun at Mickey once again, who ignored him to get on the floor and gather up Ian’s body in his arms. “Look what you made me do!” If Sal was hoping to scare Mickey a little before he pulled the trigger, Mickey wasn’t biting. As far as Mickey was concerned, he was already dead. When the gun went off a second time, he didn’t even flinch.

* * *

“Mickey!” Ian yelled as he shook a flailing Mickey awake. Mickey gasped as he surfaced abruptly, his eyes wet and bulging as the room slowly came together. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You were having a nightmare.”

Mickey panted and blinked rapidly as he stared at the miracle that was Ian’s concerned face. As the tentacles of the nightmare gradually receded, Mickey glanced nervously at the door. “What the fuck are you doing in here?”

“You were having a nightmare. I could hear you from my room and—”

“Get out.”

“Mickey, I just want to make sure that you’re—”

“Get out!”

Ian sighed but quickly got up from the bed, seeing that Mickey was getting agitated again. He gave Mickey another look before closing the door behind him.

* * *

A couple days later, Ian sat at the kitchen island, futilely trying to study for his last final. He looked up when Jaime came into the kitchen, bearing a covered dish.

“Hey,” Jaime greeted, “who’s here?”

“Iggy and Joey are in the basement,” Ian told him, “Mickey’s upstairs; he hasn’t come down yet.”

Jaime nodded and deposited the dish on the counter before heading to the basement door to yell down to his brothers. “Ay, you assholes hungry?”

“Yes,” Iggy and Joey bleated in unison, making their brother smile.

“Yeah, you weren’t going to say no. Can you live for another half hour?”

They promised they would try and Jaime immediately went about getting a meal together. Soon afterwards, Mickey came down and steadfastly ignored a hopeful looking Ian to head straight to his brother.

“I’m heading out,” Mickey told Jaime while peeking under the cloth to see the nut bread underneath. “I need to head over to the Rub and Tug, sort some shit out then head over to the garages for the rest of the day. Everybody needs their hand held with all this Fed shit and Sal taking off.”

“Yeah alright,” Jaime nodded, “you eat?”

“Not hungry,” Mickey mumbled only to receive a look from Jaime. Mickey snorted and went for a knife to take a large slice of the nut bread. “Happy now, mom?” Mickey said through a mouthful of baked good before stomping off without a word to a crestfallen Ian.

“Yeah, it’s not as bad as it looks,” Jaime said to Ian after he’d gotten the pots on the fire. He put a couple of slices of the nut bread on a plate and placed it before Ian, before automatically pouring him a glass of milk. He snorted when Ian looked up at him questioningly. “What, you thought all that shit was for my benefit? He never tells me squat about what he’s doing unless he needs me to be a heavy. He was telling you his schedule for the day,” Jaime said as he sat on a stool across from Ian.

“He’s been having nightmares,” Ian said quietly, “I push too much sometimes. Maybe this was a mistake.”

Jaime didn’t answer immediately, but instead regarded Ian silently while he gnawed on his lower lip. He tapped the table quietly as he wrestled with what to say next to a downcast Ian.

“You know, when we were kids, our dad would disappear a lot—go on benders, short stints in the can, shit like that. We’d kind of look forward to him taking off for a while, you know, give us a break, let us heal up a little bit,” Jaime said, chuckling to himself. “The last time he took off, we were so relieved because he was on edge all the time and acting up in the worst way, and it was getting pretty bad. By the time we realized that he probably wasn’t coming back this time, we were already in some deep shit. That’s when I found out just how fucking useless I was.” Jaime scratched at his nose and shrugged his shoulders as he settled in to the memory. “I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t boil water, I couldn’t do laundry, and I knew fuck all about how to keep the heat on and the water running. I mean, yeah, me and Tony were still kids then, but Iggy and Joey and Mickey and Mandy, they were babies, you know? They needed everything and I couldn’t do shit for them,” Jaime stopped abruptly and tried to clear his throat of the lump forming there. “Me and Tony, we tried to run some hustles, but half the time we’d end up in lock up, which wasn’t that bad of a deal for us—three hots and a cot, you know—but then they’d have no one. Mickey had to start figuring shit out while we were gone, he had to take over and he had to do things, uh, he should never had had to do, and a lot of that’s on me, I think,” he said quietly.

“When Jaynie’s mom took off, I nearly shit myself when I realized that I was alone with this kid. She was so small, she could fit right in the palm of my hand, and this baby needed me to survive. It was déjà vu all over again and was pretty sure I was going to kill this kid. But somehow I didn’t,” Jaime said, his voice lifting as he hit Ian with a rare dazzler of a smile, “I mean, it was rough but I started to figure shit out. I read shit and watched videos and I did stupid, fucking workshops with soccer moms that looked at me like I was trash, but I figured shit out and somehow, Jaynie didn’t just survive in spite of me, she survived because of me. So maybe I wasn’t totally useless after all… So I keep looking after her and JJ, whose mom is still around, crazily enough, and I try to take care of Mickey and everybody else too, even though I know it won’t make up for before, but still…” he trailed off and looked up to see Ian staring at him with wide-eyed incredulity. Jaime cleared his throat again loudly and continued gruffly.

“I say all of this to say that, first of all, you taking off is not what he wants, okay? It’s what he expects; it’s what we all expect. People have been taking off on us since the day we were born. The most we usually hope for is to have a little bit of control over how it happens, or to see it coming, but it’s not what we want. Also, you sticking around pushes him into uncharted, fucking scary territory. No one wants to be fucking scared and uncertain all the time, wondering when this person you’re falling for and you’re depending on—even though you’re trying not to—is going to drop the hammer on you,” Jaime said and fidgeted haplessly as he powered through, “but, um, there’s something about having someone stick around and love you in spite of all your crap that forces you to be better and to figure stuff out… once you stop being scared. So, uh, don’t take off. He’ll stop being scared eventually.”

Jaime trailed off uncomfortably and stared at his hands, all the while glancing up at Ian to see how his rambling message was received. Honestly, he thought once Sal had disappeared that Ian would have followed suit. It had been the perfect opportunity for Ian to take off. Sal had forsaken his sugar daddy duties and probably wouldn’t even have noticed if Ian had simply taken all his swag and cut ties. Instead, even with Mickey pushing him away, Ian had stepped out of the frying pan and into the fire in the pursuit of Mickey, surprising the hell out of everyone except, perhaps, Iggy and Mandy. Jaime had found himself re-evaluating everything he thought he knew.

Ian eventually nodded, “okay… do you think he’s going to be mad at me for a lot longer?”

“Fuck if I know. We’re all fucked in the head and don’t process emotional shit well. At least that’s what my lady says,” Jaime snorted before nodding at Ian’s untouched plate, “eat the nut bread.”

Ian blinked and at last remembered the food before him. He obediently took a bite of the pastry. “Oh my god,” he said incredulously, “is this that Martha Stewart vanilla nut bread thing? Is this what it’s supposed to taste like? My best friend tried to make this; hers tasted like sweet cement!”

Jaime laughed, “I bet she tried to get creative with the cooking times and proportions. You can’t do that shit with Martha. She is precise.”

“She blamed the cardamom,” Ian told him as he dug into his food.

“Pfft, rookie, though the cardamom is no joke. You’d be surprised at how big a difference one little ingredient can make.”

Ian nodded, “learned that while making fish tacos for my little brothers. Swapped in some orange zest because we were out of the lemon and it was amazing. They loved it.”

“No shit? JJ and his mom love fish tacos, but I don’t really have any good recipes.”

“I have a couple,” Ian started off and wound up blowing off studying to swap cooking tips with Jaime for the next couple of hours.

* * *

“I’m heading off to my shift,” Ian called down to Mickey and Mandy as the two sat in the basement watching TV. “I have study group afterwards.”

Mandy glanced at her brother whose eyes never left the TV while he downed his beer. She looked back at Ian and shrugged. Her brother could be as stubborn as the day was long. She could hear Ian take a breath and ready to repeat himself.

“I heard you,” Mickey bit out tersely, cutting off Ian as soon as he began. Mandy rolled her eyes at her brother when Ian retreated and left the pool house.

“Really? That’s all you’re going to say to him?” she asked, “you’re acting like a prick.”

“It’s for his own good.”

“Ugh, Jesus,” Mandy groaned, “quick question: can you get down off that cross whenever you feel like it, or are you nailed up there real good?”

“Oh, fuck you!”

“Fuck you right back; you’re being a dick,” Mandy shot back, “either dump him or deal, because treating him like garbage and trying to chase him off aren’t working and it’s getting painful already.”

“He’s not supposed to be here.”

“Why?” Mandy challenged, “because of Sal? Because I don’t know if you noticed, but Sal’s not fucking here right now. You’re freaking out because you keep thinking he’s going to leave anyway and he’s not doing it on your schedule. You always flip out whenever someone deviates from your directives.”

Mickey frowned at his sister. “What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t flip—”

“You flip the fuck out when things don’t go how you plan them or someone challenges you. You do it with us, you do it with Sal; you lost your mind when Joey took the GPS suggestions over your route.”

“He had just knocked over a bookie and decided to use the main roads during rush hour! Who does that shit?!”

Mandy sighed, “look, I’m not saying Ian isn’t maybe making too literal a point here, but obviously he’s not going anywhere, Mickey. He loves you; he moved into a mob-infested hellhole just to prove it to your dumb ass. Even Jaime is onboard, for fuck’s sake. If you’re still uncertain, that’s like shaking the magic eight ball and getting a ‘hell fucking yes.’ Go talk to him already and figure out your next move,” she said as she stood up and made her way upstairs.

Mickey wasn’t alone for a minute before his phone rang. “Yeah?”

Dre’s voice came smoothly across the line. “I found your boy, ” he drawled, making Mickey sit up abruptly. “He’s still hanging out with Sid and Nancy, holed up in den over in Cicero. I’ll text you the address in a minute.” Dre could already hear Mickey getting to his feet and the gears spinning in his friend’s head. He tried to give Mickey pause. “Mick, hear me out though,” Dre said and Mickey grunted at him in response. “He’s not on my script anymore; hasn’t been for a while. He’s been introduced to some new shit, if you’re picking up what I’m putting down. You might want to prepare yourself a lit—”

“Text me the address.”

* * *

Dre sighed as he sent off the text. Sometimes forewarned wasn’t necessarily forearmed. He didn’t have long to worry about this latest development before he was reminded that he had more immediate concerns.

“I can’t feel my legs,” Alex warbled as she lay on the ground in a daze next to the park bench.

“Yeah, that’s my fault,” Dre said and sat down on the bench. “See up until now, I’ve been giving you mostly white girl weed. But I realized that you’re wound really tight, so I decided to bump you up to regular strength weed, which appears to have been a bit of an overshoot. Don’t worry though; I’ll get your blend right next time.”

She grabbed his pant leg and tugged herself upright with great difficulty. She then rested her head on his knee, looked up at him and whispered conspiratorially, “I don’t understand any of the words you just said.”

Dre laughed and stroked her hair soothingly. “Just ride this one out. I’ll sort you out next time.”

Alex hummed contentedly before suddenly blurting out, “I don’t want to turn into my mom!”

“What’s that now?”

“It’s my biggest fear,” she admitted, “like I try not to be, but sometimes I can feel myself turning into an elitist bitch and it gets easier every time. I don’t want to look in the mirror one day and see Joan staring back at me. I don’t want to be anything like her,” she moaned, “but I swear to god, I hear myself sometimes and it’s uncanny and the worst.”

Dre had no idea how to manoeuvre that sudden reveal. “Well they say girls tend to take after their moms a lot of times,” he offered lamely.

“Yeah, I know… I was hoping the whole ‘born male’ thing would have at least exempted me from that. What a royal fuck up on every level.”

“Huh?”

Alex’s addled brain took a moment to process Dre’s confusion. “Oh, right,” she said softly, “I hadn’t gotten around to telling you that yet.”

Then there it was, the squint-and-lean. Not even Dre’s ridiculously strong weed could fully insulate from the effects of automatic analysis. Alex felt herself bracing.

“But you identify as a girl, right? Or have I been misgendering you this whole time?” Dre asked and snorted when Alex blinked at him in shock. “What? I’m educated, I read, plus I’ve been on tumblr a couple of times so that makes me pretty much a social expert now.”

Alex giggled zanily before flopping down bonelessly onto his knee again. “I’m pre-op,” she hazarded quietly, the risk of her confession sobering her a little, “I mean, is that weird for you?”

Dre laughed as he retrieved the joint from Alex’s fingers and pulled on it. “Not trying to sound glib, but the only type of sausage I ever have a problem with is the one with pork in it.”

Alex choked on her startled laughter before eyeing Dre curiously. “Pork? Are you kosher? Oh my god, are you a black Jew like Lenny Kravitz?”

Dre blinked, nonplussed, and then waved one of his locks at her while she continued to look at him curiously. “Are you that high or do you not know a thing about Rastafarians?”

She stared at him blankly for a moment before smiling goofily. “I had dreadlocks for a while in junior high,” she told him.

Dre nodded slowly and smiled, “of course you did…” he said and took another drag off the joint, “…white people.”

* * *

Mickey waited in his car down the block from the dilapidated building and watched the comings and goings for a while. It was a crumbling, red brick edifice in a drug ravaged town in Cicero—another prime candidate for gentrification soon enough. The Outfit had been huge there back in the day, but had now mostly faded away out of sight and mind as they had in so many places. Still, some vestiges remained. The Outfit still had eyes, ears and fingers in Cicero, so if Sal had been there the whole time, then the powers that be were already well aware of it. Which was probably why the hammer hadn’t come down on them yet, Mickey mused, since they knew Sal hadn’t scurried off to the Feds. Johnnie Boy had been taking the piss out of Mickey and his family for shits and giggles, just biding time until he could wipe them out for good. Mickey glanced around his surroundings before tossing his cigarette and sliding out of the Camry. It was time to take the bull by the horns.

The door to the sixth floor apartment was slightly ajar and Mickey slowly pushed it open. He was immediately hit by the smell—stale air, body odour and a nauseating mix of burnt candles and biological waste. Mickey stepped into the living area, empty but for the ruined couch, the trash and paraphernalia littering the floor, and a lone young man sitting on the ground by the window, his head lolling as he slumped against the wall. Mickey sniffed and made his way towards the back room.

The bedroom was barely any different from the living room except for the double bed shoved into the corner rather than a broken couch. A young couple huddled together on the floor— _“Sid and Nancy,”_ Mickey guessed from the colourful hair and the metal spiked leather jackets. They seemed to be mostly asleep, despite the early afternoon, and the only other occupant in the room was fast asleep as well.

Mickey never expected that he would be so shocked at the sight of Sal. He thought he’d seen Sal in every way imaginable. He’d watch Sal get high before inevitably crashing, but somehow, in the midst of it, Sal was always Sal. This wretched person curled up on the dirty, unmade bed, looked nothing like the person Mickey thought he knew. Sal, his Sal, would never be caught dead in that stained, formerly white, tank top and those soiled, unzipped pants. The beard had grown out and was unkempt, the wisps of hair on Sal’s head now wild. He could smell Sal from the doorway; not just the fresh smell of blood and emesis, but the deeper, set in odour of a body that had not been washed for days, maybe longer. The image left Mickey dumbfounded and rattled. There had to be some sort of mistake.

He stepped over the couple, neither of them even registering as Mickey went to stand at the foot of the bed. He hesitated for a bit and desperately searched the human lump for any signs that there had been some sort of mistake on the part of Dre’s informants. Still, the longer Mickey stared, the more Sal’s features came into sharper relief. Finally, Mickey swallowed and shook Sal’s foot.

“Sal?” Mickey croaked as he shook his boss gently at first, but Sal was unresponsive and Mickey tried a little harder. “Sal?” Still nothing… the silence stretched on but for the crunch of a needle and some foil beneath Mickey’s booted feet and he could feel his patience thinning rapidly. “Sal!” he demanded and slapped Sal’s foot, making the man snort and shudder awake.

Sal was mostly incoherent and it took some time for Mickey to come into focus for him. There was finally a spark of recognition and Sal gave him a watery smile. The older man tried to sit up, failed miserably and simply raised a hand in acknowledgment before getting ready to drift off.

“Sal!” Mickey growled and shook him again, stopping Sal from falling back to sleep. “What the fuck? Have you been here the whole time?” Mickey asked and Sal mumbled something too low and jumbled for him to understand. Mickey ploughed on regardless. “What the hell were you thinking letting Gallagher move into the pool house with all this shit going on? What if Linda found out? What the fuck are you playing at?”

“Ian…” Sal sighed and the small, familiar smile was almost enough to make Mickey heave. “Ian is… it’s okay.”

Mickey ran a hand over his face before jerking Sal awake again. Mickey’s next words were low and urgent. “There’s been a lot of talk about you owing on the kick-ups, Sal. Fischetti’s pissed and people have been coming around asking for you,” Mickey told him, but Sal only grunted faintly and tried to roll onto his side. Mickey grabbed his leg again, “Saul’s gone; I don’t know where. I don’t know if he took off or the Feds nabbed him, but he’s gone. The Feds have most of the books by now, and the ones I still got… I don’t know what to do with them. I don’t even—I don’t even know what’s what,” Mickey breathed out while he kept shaking Sal’s leg. “You gotta tell me what to do, Sal. You’ve gotta—you’ve gotta give me an order or a clue or something. I’m in over my head here. You have to tell me what to do, because I don’t know what move to make. Sal…? Sal?” Mickey hissed, but Sal had begun softly snoring and Mickey felt something inside of him snap. “You can't just leave us in this shit, Sal!” he yelled suddenly, and while it didn’t do much to rouse his boss, the young couple stirred.

“Jesus, man, will you shut the fuck up? People are trying to sleep here,” the young man rasped as he disentangled from his girlfriend and tried to struggle to his feet.  “Go cry like a bitch somewhere else. Hey, Sal, where’d you find this—”

The young man didn’t have a chance to finish his question before Mickey grabbed him and yanked him to his feet. Before he could mount a protest, Mickey was slamming his head into the wall, much to the horror of the young woman at their feet. She scrambled to get out of the way of the fracas, her limbs slow and heavy, but her voice reaching a glass shattering pitch. Mickey’s head already felt like an overfilled balloon and her screams made him feel as if his head was about to pop.

“You shut the fuck up before I give you something to cry about!” Mickey barked at her, and the girl’s shrieking hiccupped to a halt as she cowered in the corner. Mickey turned his attention back to his target who now had a bloody mess for a face, and Mickey let him slump to his knees. “You had something you wanted to say to me?!” Mickey demanded, but the young man was barely even conscious. It didn’t stop Mickey from pulling his gun and pressing it to the back of the bloodied head. The girlfriend’s screams began anew. “I was crying like a bitch, right?! Is that what you said?!”

The girl’s hysterics did succeed in bringing Sal out of his stupor somewhat. “For fuck’s sake, Mickey,” Sal groaned as he took in the scene, “what did you have to go do that for? Look at his face. You, uh, you ruined his face,” Sal sighed, his energy now completely spent, “I liked his—I liked his face,” he said before he drifted off again.

Mickey stared at his boss in uncomprehending disbelief. His eyes flicked to the young woman in the corner, who reflexively curled in on herself even more. Mickey swallowed heavily and let the young man fall. Without a further word, Mickey turned heel and bolted from the apartment.

* * *

The last person Ian expected to see as he headed to the bus stop after his shift was Jaime. The eldest Milkovich came to a stop at his feet in the middle of the parking lot. Ian expected to feel at least a frisson of panic for his own well being at the sight of a blank-face Jaime pulling up to him abruptly, but the feeling never came. Clearly recipe exchanges were magical things. There was still curiosity and concern, however, which swelled upon Jaime’s next words.

“I need your help with Mickey.”

Before long, they were back in the Milkoviches’ old neighbourhood, Jaime piloting the car into a section of the district with seemingly nothing but open lots and partially demolished buildings. Ian wondered idly if all Southside neighbourhoods had such places. This one was nearly identical to the lots in his own neighbourhood of Canaryville, where he’d set up makeshift obstacle courses and practice drills for ROTC while he still had dreams of being an officer in the army. It was so familiar in fact, that it took a moment to register the bursts of gunfire that echoed across the lots.

“I need you to talk him down,” Jaime explained. “He saw Sal… He gets like this sometimes, all wound up, but it’s kind of bad right now,” Jaime glanced over at Ian quickly, conveying all his hope and despair in a flash of a loaded look—that amazing ability the siblings all shared. “He’s not listening to me. I can’t say nothing to him right now. I figure maybe you could… he won’t shoot you.”

Ian nodded, already halfway out the car and tracking the source of the gunfire, not waiting for Jaime to point him in the right direction. It wasn’t hard to find Mickey at all. Ian had gone up one building and immediately spotted Mickey blasting away in the neighbouring one. It was clearly one of Mickey’s haunts. There was a makeshift target set up with a ratty old teddy bear piled atop a melange of knickknacks. When he finally got to Mickey, he noted the subtle shift of his boyfriend’s body, as if a tremor had run through Mickey and another sharp, loaded glance—a flashing red light if Ian had ever seen one. He stood near the open doorway of the roofless building and tried to start off lightly.

“You’re stance needs some serious work,” he offered, careful not to get any closer as Mickey shuffled again and took aim. “I could help you out; get you to line up your shots better and improve your accuracy.” The retort of Mickey’s nine millimetre gun seemed deafening and Ian cringed slightly until the last blast faded. He paused and tried again. “So are we going to talk about what’s going on or what?” Ian received no answer as Mickey chose to empty another clip instead. “Will you at least look at me?!”

“Go away.”

It was said so softly, Ian almost missed it. “I thought we already established that I’m not going to leave, especially when we both know you don’t really want me—.”

“You’re right, I don’t want you; at least not anymore.”

It was said so casually, Ian almost didn’t comprehend it. Despite knowing exactly what Mickey’s game was, the statement still knocked the wind out of Ian. He blinked rapidly, trying to catch his breath, and stared down at his shoes while the old instinct to run away from a painful stimulus kicked in sharply. Ian tamped down the feeling and planted his feet. “You might feel better if you talked about it,” Ian said quietly as he struggled to keep his voice even.

Of course, Mickey didn’t answer him and rapidly emptied another clip. When the bullets ran out, Mickey kept firing while every type of frustration bubbled over inside of him with each awful click of the empty gun. He cursed beneath his breath and stomped back to his box of bullets which sat on a stool in the center of the room. He kept cursing, angry, anxious tears welling up as his fingers shook too badly to even grasp a bullet properly. They clattered from his damp grasp and when Mickey tried to take a breath to curse some more, he realized he couldn’t. His breath came in halting gasps and his vision suddenly narrowed, which was precisely when Ian tackled him, or hugged him, depending on which one was asked.

Mickey found himself taken to the ground. Ian sat down against a wall, taking Mickey with him and keeping the panicking man squarely between his legs. He wrapped his arms around Mickey, hugging him tightly to his chest and crossing his legs over Mickey’s.

“Mick, you’re hyperventilating,” Ian said calmly, “let’s try to slow your breathing down a little, okay? Try and breathe with me,” Ian said and took some measured breaths, “try and breathe with me.”

Mickey nodded and tremulously tried to slow his breathing to match his boyfriend’s. Ian counted quietly to help center Mickey’s focus and help him regulate his breathing.

“You’re doing such a good job,” Ian soothed as Mickey’s panting slowly abated. “Just keep matching me; I’ve got you. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Mickey gradually slumped down against Ian’s chest as his breathing evened out. Ian kept cradling him, his long arms and legs holding Mickey tightly and keeping him bound to Earth.  After a while, Mickey’s breathing quieted and Ian uncrossed his legs and lifted them off Mickey’s. The move did not sit well with Mickey, who jolted when the weight of Ian’s legs left his.

“No, don’t.”

“I’m not letting you go,” Ian hastily reassured him, “I have you. I’m just trying not to cut off your circulation to your feet. This asshole I know is always telling me how heavy I am.”

“It was never a complaint,” Mickey said softly, but relaxed once again against Ian’s chest. He even let Ian loosen the vise-like grip from around his chest and let Ian hold him more gently. “This was fucking stupid. I’m so stupid, ” Mickey grumbled, red-faced and embarrassed, but Ian kissed his neck and tugged at the top of Mickey’s ear with his teeth to stave off the feeling.

“No, you aren’t. Everyone has their shit, remember? You’re going through a lot. It just gets on top of you sometimes.”

Mickey said nothing, but scratched awkwardly at his nose before settling his hand atop Ian’s to trace idle patterns there. “I’m still mad at you,” he murmured and his face warmed when Ian laughed softly in his ear.

“Yeah, I know,” Ian said. “How long do you think we have before we’re definitely murdered?”

Mickey contemplated the fading twilight. “Couple of hours.”

“Okay then,” Ian murmured. “It’s going to be okay, Mickey,” he said at length, “we’ll take care of each other; we’ll figure this all out. We’ll be okay, I promise you.”

And in spite of all the shit and all the evidence to the contrary; in that moment, Mickey believed him.

* * *

Mickey needed time to decompress afterwards and quickly retreated to his bedroom to be alone after Ian finally got him home. With Mickey still feeling a little shaky and all the mess going on; it was once again next to impossible for Ian to study. He was lured to the couch next to Mandy, where she convinced him to binge on popcorn and an _I Love Lucy_ marathon. For the most part, it was a decent distraction, though Ian’s brain wandered up to Mickey’s bedroom frequently. Soon enough though, he was engrossed in Lucy’s shenanigans and giggling up a storm with Mandy.

He smelt the cologne before anything else and Ian’s head whipped around expectantly when Mickey appeared atop the stairs. The leather jacket was back, the hair was neatly coiffed and Mickey was in one of his many “I’m not trying to impress you, except I am” button down shirts. Ian’s smile was already luminous and Mandy didn’t need a psychic to tell her that she was about to lose her marathon partner. Ian was nodding before Mickey even got the question out.

“Wanna go for a ride?”  


	27. This could be us...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey guys... After I posted the last chapter, I received a lot of asks about updates and scheduling and the like. It's saying something that I didn't get around to answering them, because I'm usually such an eager puppy about responding to questions and feedback. The truth of it is, I'm just sad and I realize it's affecting some of my functioning a bit. I'm trying to process and get back to myself a little, but it's proving to be difficult. As such, and as much as I want to, I can't promise that updates will be regularly scheduled. I tried to get back on my time table after the last chapter and I just ran of out steam in the middle of it. I'll keep working at it and I want so much to get this story out and completed and to keep sharing with you, and I will. I just need you to bear with me while I keep sorting myself out. Thanks for understanding.

Mickey Milkovich breezily clad in a Hawaiian shirt was a powerful image. So much so that when the vision assaulted Ian as he ran into Mickey making his way out of his room, Ian was physically taken aback. He staggered backwards and blinked while Mickey rolled his eyes and sucked on his inner cheek.

“Got something to say?” Mickey asked as he stopped to lean inside his doorway. He might as well get this over with.

“I do actually,” Ian said thoughtfully, “but would you be able to hear me over the loudness of that shirt?”

“Screw you, I look hot in this,” Mickey sniffed, “in fact, I wasn’t going to roll it out until we needed to spice things up a little, but I’ll figure something else out when the time comes.”

Ian grinned at his boyfriend. “No worries, you can still deploy the high-waisted grandpa pants. Those always get me going.”

“I’ll remember that,” Mickey said and started to make his way towards the stairs, only to be stopped when Ian grabbed his hips and pushed him against the wall.

“So yeah, this weekend, all weekend, just you and me. Clear Saturday and Sunday,” Ian ordered.

“And I’m doing that because…?”

“Because there doesn’t have to be a reason, but obviously we need to celebrate your birthday, asshole.”

“My birthday is Friday,” Mickey pointed out.

“Yeah, but you have a whole dumb family who will want to celebrate and do dumb things for you, so I’ll let them,” Ian said magnanimously, “besides, I’m not dumb enough to kidnap you when Jaime probably has a whole freaking thing planned. So yeah, this weekend, just us and no excuses.”

Mickey chewed on his lower lip and gazed up at Ian coquettishly. “It’s really not a big deal,” he hazarded.

Ian only smiled indulgently. “Yeah, nice try; you’re very cute. Friday’s family, but the weekend is mine.”

* * *

Given the bad run he had been having in the dream department lately, Mickey definitely wasn’t going to complain about the one he was having now. It was perfection personified; from the moist heat engulfing his cock to the very familiar tongue expertly laving it. Mickey twisted his fingers into the red hair and thrilled at Ian’s answering grunt as his boyfriend doubled his efforts. The dream world moved in a hazy swirl around them, but Mickey could only focus on the bite of Ian’s nails into the flesh of his thighs and the building pressure on his cock as he was kept on the edge of orgasm.

“Fuck that’s good,” Mickey gasped shakily, holding on for dear life to Ian’s hair as the man sucked him down harder and faster, making Mickey’s heels dig desperately into the bed. The dream shattered when a very corporeal Ian pressed his fingers against Mickey’s prostate as the pièce de résistance, and had Mickey screaming awake. Mickey collapsed against the pillows, spent and panting, while Ian fought his way out from under the sheets. The way Ian figured it, just because the day belonged to the Milkoviches didn’t mean it couldn’t start and end with him. He grinned down at his dazed, replete boyfriend.

“Happy birthday,” he purred at Mickey.

“Happy birthday,” Mickey repeated hoarsely; his beleaguered brain unable to fire on a single cylinder.

Ian’s resultant smile was unapologetically smug. It was another job well done. “Go back to sleep,” Ian whispered as he kissed Mickey’s shoulder, “it’s only dawn.” Mickey fell into the suggestion readily and quickly dozed off while Ian slipped out of bed. Jaime would be arriving soon and had conscripted Ian into being his line cook. He intended to be ready and raring to go when the man showed up. Ian was taking no chances.

* * *

By the time Mickey made his way downstairs later that morning, all his siblings and the stray niece and nephew were present and accounted for. Jaime and Ian had assembled a birthday brunch large enough to feed an army despite the numerous amounts of bacon and muffins that kept getting stolen. The chorus of “happy birthday” that rang out was somewhat muffled by the fact that almost everyone was mid-chew.

“Thanks for waiting,” Mickey said drily before drifting over to Ian to steal a piece of bacon for himself. When Jaime and Ian glared daggers at him, he simply mumbled “birthday” and took another piece.

Since the guest of honour was present, the family wasted no time in settling down and demolishing the massive meal before them.  Determined to be the first to present her gift, Jayne waited for the first signs of Mickey slowing down in order to wriggle out of her father’s lap and make a beeline for her uncle. She proudly held the paper aloft and waited patiently for him to examine it and give his assessment.

“What the fuck is this?” Mickey sniffed as he took hold of Jayne’s elaborate drawing.

“It’s your royal porridge,” she said with a flourish.

“Portrait,” Jaime corrected.

“It’s your royal portrait,” she amended without missing a beat, complete with rainbow hands and spirit fingers.

Mickey was sceptical. “Why am I wearing a dress though?”

“It’s not a dress,” she said a tad too quickly, “it’s a… um,” she looked to her father for rescue.

“A royal robe,” Jaime provided helpfully as he chewed his eggs.

“Yeah that,” she nodded. Mickey remained unconvinced and squinted more closely at the drawing, devoted as ever to taking the piss out of his tiny niece. This was why the empathetic Joey was her favourite most of the time. 

“You were drawing Mandy, weren’t you?” Mickey said with a sigh. “You keep doing this. You can’t keep changing your mind in the middle of shit and then just switch us back and forth. You’re gonna give us complexes, Jaynie.”

“That’s not what I did!” she huffed, guilty as all get out.

“And who’s this dude?” Mickey said, continuing his art critique. “Why am I holding hands with a gangly, ginger E.T.?”

“That’s Ian!” she said, dissolving into giggles, “he’s your prince.”

“Well I didn’t vote for him. How are you just going to go around playing matchmaker with zero input from the people involved? You’re playing with lives, Jaynie. You think this is a game?!” he asked her, fighting back his own smile as she kept laughing. “Why that dude?”

“Well, why not?!” she challenged.

Mickey looked at Ian then down at his niece. “I don’t think I like his face.”

Jayne and Ian exchanged an affronted glance before both giving Mickey such powerful twin looks of “are you kidding me?!” that Mickey finally cracked up and scooped up his niece. “Nah, I love it. Thank you.”

The only other person with a gift was Iggy, who set the long, narrow, gift-wrapped package down before Mickey, all the while grinning impishly. Mickey shook the gift, and the contents thudded about inside. Ian’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and Iggy loudly cleared his throat when Mickey began to open the box.

“Uh, maybe you wanna open it later when—” Iggy paused and looked at Ian before trying to scapegoat Jayne, “—when kids aren’t about, you know? Kinda scary…”

Ian promptly scooped up the unopened gift, opened up one end to take a look at what was inside, rolled his eyes before getting up from the table, gift firmly in hand.

“What was it?” Mickey asked. He had the sneaking suspicion he was never going to set eyes on Iggy’s gift ever again.

“They call it the ‘Hammaconda,’” Iggy said with a tinge of regret, “supposed to be a near perfect replica of Jon Hamm’s dick.”

“Why would you give this to me in front of him? You know how he gets,” Mickey chastised his brother who shrugged apologetically.

“Got too excited?”

Mickey couldn’t get too mad about that. He heard Jon Hamm’s dick had that effect on people.

* * *

Brunch eventually wound down and while Ian and Mandy cleaned up, Mickey gave his brothers their orders for the day. Before long, the noise and chaos of the morning had dissipated and Mickey approached his sister as she dried her hands.

“Can you hold down the Rub and Tug for me today?” he asked her and she nodded. “In fact, you should be putting in more time there; get to know the new girls and get comfortable being there again. Help Svetlana run shit so I don’t have to be there as much.”

Mandy looked at her brother askance. “Why?” she asked suspiciously.

“Why not, you’ve got fuck else to do half the time,” Mickey grunted, “I’ve got all this other shit to take care of; this thing you can do.”

Mandy quirked an eyebrow, “you’re stepping back a little? You, control freak extraordinaire?” she grinned at her glowering brother, all the while aware of Ian blatantly eavesdropping behind her. “You’re so fucking whipped,” she grinned and whispered to her brother before bouncing off. “I’ll go get my ASP,” she said, referring to her collapsible baton. “Keep the riffraff in line.”

While Mandy got ready to assume her duties, Ian followed Mickey to his room and sat on the bed watching as Mickey carefully slipped on his mob persona.

“So you’re working on your birthday?” Ian asked lamely as Mickey preened in the mirror.

“Yes, because I’m not eight and most adults work on their birthday?” Mickey snorted before trying to sweeten Ian up a little. “If I’m gonna clear the weekend, I have to get shit done today, right? Big picture here.”

“What are you doing today?” Ian asked, risking violating Mickey’s clichéd rule about being asked about his “business.”

“Mostly damage assessment, keep the natives from getting too restless while Sal’s still ghosting us. Maybe see if I can hear anything else about where the fuck Saul is…” Mickey paused and tried to dispel the growing tightness in his voice. He turned to Ian, who stared up at him with eyes large and full of concern. “Look, nothing fatal, mostly administrative, alright? I’ll be back way before time for the party tonight.”

Ian sighed and relented. He stood up, grabbed Mickey’s tie and pulled him flush against him. “Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.”

* * *

Mickey was late, though he had tried his damndest not to be. He had fallen down the rabbit hole of chasing Saul’s last movements and trying to figure out if he needed to be more freaked out about the Feds or Fischetti finally bringing down the hammer on them. By the time he changed and made it back to the Milkovich house for his party, it was already in full swing; spilling up and outwards from the basement. He accepted the yelled greetings and well wishes before wending his way to the bar to take a shot with his brothers. Despite the crush of the crowd, there was a very notable absence.

“Where’s Ian?” he asked them and his brothers only shrugged in response.

“He was here at some point,” Tony offered before pressing another shot in Mickey’s hand, “probably here somewhere.”

Mickey nodded and downed the drink, but he was already distracted and antsy. He had been late after swearing up and down that he wouldn’t be, and Ian had probably reached the states of worried and pissed off in double time. A pissed off Ian was a strange and mercurial creature. Mickey made his way through the house, greeting his friends and acquaintances as he went along, all the while keeping his eyes peeled for a certain redhead. Ian was nowhere to be found. He nervously called Ian’s cell, anticipating a frosty greeting. Surely a guy could catch a break on his birthday? But the phone rang without answer and did so the next few times he called.

“Boys Town,” Mandy practically screeched into his ear as she staggered against his back, already several sheets to the wind. “He went to Boys Town; something about a story or fairies or some shit,” she informed him as another stumbling, giggling, young woman pulled her bodily towards one of the back rooms, leaving a very confused Mickey in their drunken wake.

* * *

Mickey hadn’t been back in Boys Town since he’d given up trying to find Sal a new love interest, and he had been quite fine with that. The best and only interesting thing Boys Town had ever held for him had literally followed him home one day and moved in. Now he was back there in another pulsating club that was indistinguishable from the ones before, right down to his homing beacon of a boyfriend gyrating on the raised platform as if his life depended on it.

It had been a while since he’d seen Ian in one of the ridiculous, microscopic outfits the go-go boys had to pour themselves into, but Mickey wasn’t mad at the throwback image. He was, however, unsure of how he was to take the fact that Ian was back in Boys Town, on stage, while a bunch of drooling, old farts leered up at him from all sides. Ian’s eyes found his immediately and Ian’s smile was soon out in all its smug, come-hither glory. At least Ian didn’t seem mad at him, but now the question remained, was he supposed to be mad at Ian?

He did what he always did when Ian was on stage, bathing in the spotlight. Mickey simply grabbed a drink from the bar before he stood a short distance off and watched. He sipped his drink, his eyes never leaving Ian’s nor vice versa, all the while trying to figure out how exactly he was supposed to be feeling and how he was to play this. Eventually, he was distracted by an equally rapt patron who had managed to attract both his and Ian’s attention by deliberately licking a ten dollar bill, apparently in aid of better sliding it into Ian’s obscenely tight shorts. Mickey was next to him and dragging him away before anyone had time to react. He released his painful wrist hold and shoved the startled man towards the exit.

“Those fingers go anywhere near that cock, I'm gonna break every knuckle in your hand, all fifteen of them.”

The man didn’t seem all that ruffled despite the manhandling. “Settle down, rumble fish,” the man said, making Mickey’s eyebrows crash into his hairline before schooling him on some cold, hard truths about the number of knuckles there actually were in a human hand.

“You wanna fucking die?!” Mickey raged, which sent the man scuttling off and left Mickey counting his knuckles. Fuck it, the jackass was right.

Ian rolled his eyes and climbed off the stage. It was just as well; the moment Mickey showed up was always the moment Ian stopped making money anyway.

“Mandy told you where to find me?” he asked Mickey, “she was getting so wasted, I wasn’t sure how useful she’d be and you weren’t picking up.”

“What the fuck’s this?” Mickey asked pointedly, “I thought you quit this shit.”

“I was fired; I didn’t quit. Besides, this was just a quick cash thing. This is the third and last night.”

“Third?! When the fuck were the other two nights?!”

“When you weren’t talking to me,” Ian shrugged, “I didn’t plan on tonight, but Don called and I figured the extra cash for the weekend couldn’t hurt.”

Mickey blinked at him. So this was all about his birthday weekend? What the hell was Ian planning? “So why didn’t you come to me if you needed the cash?” Mickey found himself asking, only for Ian to look at him incredulously and ignore the admittedly dumb question. Mickey decided to simply ask, “am I supposed to be pissed about this?”

Ian seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “No?” he said before grabbing Mickey by the lapels of his leather jacket and boring his eyes into his. “No,” he said more firmly, “it was dancing only for a couple of nights and I’m done now. Don’t get weird about this.”

In his peripheral vision, Ian could see one of the bouncers watching them closely. It was a strict rule: no boyfriend drama, yet Ian had been off stage, deep in intense conversation with an agitated man for god knows how long.

“Twenty-five bucks gets you a dance,” he told Mickey who stared at him askance after the rapid fire change.

“Huh?”

“Don’t wanna dance, gotta move on. Fifty bucks gets you the champagne room, but if it’s a special occasion, maybe I can comp that.”

Mickey finally caught on to what Ian was doing, and the distraction proved annoyingly effective. “What happens in the champagne room?” Mickey asked and Ian didn’t miss a beat.

“Whatever the fuck you want.”

Mickey hid his smile behind his hand as he scratched his nose. “It’s kind of my birthday,” he told Ian and checked his watch, “for another eighteen minutes or so.”

“Better get a move on then.”

Ian shook his head at the bouncer as he led Mickey towards the back rooms. There were the muted sounds of music coming from most of the doors on either side of the narrow passageway. When Ian pushed open the door of an unoccupied room, Mickey was assaulted by its lurid redness.

“Jesus, is this where Aunt Flo lives when she’s not out visiting?”

“What, I thought you loved red,” Ian grinned as he locked the door. “Sit on the couch.”

Mickey hesitated as he stared at the plush, red seat. “Do I need protection? Will that couch make me pregnant?”

Ian simply grabbed him by the front of his shirt and shoved him backwards onto the couch. Mickey shrugged off his jacket while Ian left him briefly to select a song.

As the music bled into the room, Ian returned and wrapped a feathered boa around Mickey’s neck while he straddled him. “So, a couple ground rules before we start,” Ian said as he ground down hard against Mickey, who exhaled audibly, “you should know there’s no sex in the champagne room, so my shorts should stay on. Any touching should be one way, so I can touch you, but you shouldn’t touch me, unless of course, you don’t want me touching you.” Ian slid his hand between them to grope Mickey’s crotch. “Is all that okay with you?”

“But it’s my birthday,” Mickey suggested softly as Ian continued his massage and undulated against him. “No touching on my birthday?”

“Well, I’m not inflexible,” Ian mused as he flipped around, facing away from Mickey to slide against him. “But I’ve already bent so many rules…”

Mickey nuzzled against Ian, ghosting his lips over Ian’s ear and stirring the short hairs at the nape of Ian’s neck, making him shiver. Ian laughed as he turned around to straddle Mickey once again.

“That’s cheating,” Ian clucked and slipped his hand under Mickey’s shirt as he pressed Mickey further down into the soft couch.

“Technically I wasn’t touching you.”

Ian shrugged and smirked down at his panting, rock hard boyfriend, “fuck it, what’s another exception, right? You can touch me.”

Mickey wasted no time. He skimmed his hands up Ian’s bare thighs and trailed his finger along the inside of Ian’s shorts.

“Just straight for it, huh?” Ian asked.

“I like to go for gold,” Mickey said and tugged on the sparkly material and Ian’s underwear to free Ian’s erection. “Do you have anything?” he panted when Ian shifted to shove him lengthwise along the couch.

“What, you think we have lube stashed in every dark corner or something?” Ian asked as he wriggled backwards a little off Mickey’s hips so he could unzip Mickey’s jeans. “We’re dancers, not whores,” he sniffed, “well most of us,” he amended slightly when Mickey raised an eyebrow at him. “… Some of us… Shut the fuck up.”

Mickey only laughed. “So how are we going to—” he trailed off when Ian deliberately licked his palm and then took hold of Mickey’s erection to stroke him. Mickey’s moan gave way to stuttered laughter when he realized Ian was trying to jerk him off in time to the beat of the pounding music.

“This _is_ technically still a lap dance,” Ian said and paused his stroking to grind against Mickey for emphasis, “so are you touching me or what?” Ian asked with an arch of his brow. Mickey quickly followed suit and wetted his palm to pump Ian’s cock with rough, rhythmic strokes until Ian was grunting with pleasure above him.

They kept going, pulling desperately at each other under the harsh glow of the red lights and the driving beat of the music. Mickey arched into Ian and while Ian gripped the armrest of the couch next to Mickey’s head.

“Wait for me,” Ian commanded and watched as Mickey bit his lip and felt Mickey’s blunted nails digging into his thigh as he tried to hold back. He didn’t keep Mickey waiting long, since he too was at his limit. He told Mickey to come in a harsh whisper and they came together, spilling into each other’s hands.

“At the very least you guys could stock a few tissues,” Mickey complained and searched his pockets for a handkerchief as Ian climbed off him. Ian turned off the radio and grabbed some tissues from the small cupboard on which the radio rested. He tossed the box at Mickey.

“Hey, accidents happen,” he said at Mickey’s knowing look at the small cupboard.

“So are you done?” Mickey asked as they made themselves as presentable as they could manage, “because I need to get back to my party, but I’m not leaving here without you either.”

Ian gave Mickey a lopsided grin and nodded. “Fuck it, I made my money. Let’s go.”

* * *

The sight of Mickey Milkovich glaring down intently while framed in the dim light of dawn would unnerve anyone. It gave Ian a start when he blinked awake, and it took him a moment to realize it was only Mickey, and not the Bogeyman, so he could breathe again.

“Jesus, what?” Ian asked thickly while he tried to sink back into sleep.

“So… what are we doing today?” Mickey asked quietly in order not to get Ian too aggravated. Despite all the charm and sunny personality, Ian was surprisingly not a morning person.

Ian looked at the clock and found that the hour hand was still firmly in the godforsaken zone. Ian was not amused; worse how he and Mickey had only managed to pour themselves into bed a few hours earlier after the party had petered out.

“You know what we’re _not_ doing today, Jethro?” Ian asked, “milking the cows, or churning butter, or ploughing the fields for harvest or whatever the fuck you Amish motherfuckers do at this time of the morning!” Ian hissed before flipping onto his stomach and burying his face into his pillow. “Go back to sleep, Mickey!”

Mickey snorted rudely before flopping back down into bed. “So mean to me on my extended birthday,” he muttered beneath his breath, yet loud enough for his boyfriend to register. “Trying to be all polite and excited for your shit, but you’re going to be mad at me like I’m the one that made the sun come out on your ass. Just checking to see if your plans needed an early wake up call, but you had to go and try to take my head off…”

“Mickey, I love you, but I will punch you in the fucking throat if you don’t shut the fuck up and go back to sleep,” Ian warned.

Mickey quieted his grumblings, but spent a few restless minutes tossing about, trying to get comfortable. He eventually realized why he couldn’t settle down—because he was a rube who fell too quickly and got too accustomed to even the rudely imposed changes in his routine. He eyed Ian warily and contemplated poking the sleeping bear. Eventually, figuring he had led a full life well lived, he decided to roll the dice and kick Ian awake.

Watching Ian stir and slowly turn to face him with murder in his green eyes was a bit like watching the rise of Cthulhu. Fortunately, Mickey had both his own discount version of a puppy dog expression and a ready explanation. “Guess I can’t sleep without you touching me after all.”

Ian paused, rolled his red-rimmed eyes, but then shuffled over and flopped down on top of Mickey like a heedless St. Bernard. He wound up squashing his boyfriend a little in the process, but Mickey wasn’t about to complain about it.

“Don’t get me used to shit and then stop,” Mickey said quietly, and Ian wondered just how many layers were contained in that seemingly innocuous statement. In any event, Ian’s answer would be the same.

“I won’t; I promise,” he said and dropped a kiss on Mickey’s shoulder. “Now please shut the fuck up.”

* * *

When it was finally a decent hour, Ian took Mickey downstairs to make him a late breakfast. Mickey sat with his head resting on the dining room table and watched as Ian toiled away in the kitchen. They were alone in the pool house and Mickey noted that he didn’t mind the lack of noise, chaos and siblings nearly as much as he thought he would. In fact, he didn’t mind much of anything as long as Ian was with him. The anxiety and loneliness that would chip away at him whenever his siblings were gone had slowly started to dissipate soon after Ian had crashed into his life. Mickey was sometimes left wondering about what would eat away at him instead if Ian was ever absent. He blocked the thought from his mind.

Just as Ian slid the loaded plate in front of Mickey, the basement door flew open and a bedraggled Mandy emerged, much to their surprise.

“What’s cooking?” she asked, sniffing about the kitchen for extras as Ian took a seat in the breakfast nook next to Mickey.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were still at the house,” Mickey said, making sure to start tucking into his food before Mandy could relieve him of it. Fortunately, there was enough in the pans to distract her.

“Tony dropped me off after everything was done. Didn’t feel like staying there,” she said between bites. She then batted her eyes at them, “sorry to crash your little domestic bliss party, but a girl’s gotta eat.”

“A girl’s gotta work. Why aren’t you down at the Rub and Tug? This time of day, some sleaze is probably there trying to get his dick wet without having shit to pay for the privilege. You should be down there busting heads,” he said before turning to Ian and adding softly, “this is good though,” he told Ian and nodded to the food. Ian beamed back at him.

“Yeah, I’m going in a few,” Mandy said while she quickly finished her food and dumped her plate in the sink. She started to leave the kitchen, both eager for a shower and wanting to give the two their privacy. “Iggy’s picking me up soon to drop me there.”

“Iggy? Didn’t he crash at the house last night?” Mickey asked and Mandy nodded. “You’re making Iggy come all the way from the Southside just to drop your princess bride ass at the Rub and Tug? Between here, the safe houses and the garages, there have to be like fifteen cars in the stable. Pick one, drive it, it’s yours; we’re your brothers, not your fucking chauffeurs.”

“Ugh, fine… I’ll cancel Iggy,” she said with a heavy sigh and slumped out of the kitchen.

“And leave the trucks alone!” Mickey yelled after her, “those stay put!”

“Yes, Pa!” she yelled back, and Mickey didn’t have to see her to know that there was a middle finger or two aimed his way.

“Which reminds me,” Ian said lightly as he stroked the back of Mickey’s neck, “if you have fun today and really like what I have planned, will you call me daddy again to reward me?”

“Ugh, gross, fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” Mickey scoffed and got up to dump his dishes as well.

“But it’s all I want,” Ian whined.

Mickey was unmoved. “Yeah? Too bad it’s not your extended birthday,” he said. He leaned against the kitchen counter and looked at his boyfriend curiously, “but seriously though, what are we doing?”

* * *

Nothing for the next few hours, it would turn out. By the time Ian and Mickey left the pool house, it was early evening and they headed to Mickey’s diner for their next meal.

“I can’t believe we haven’t come back here since our first date,” Ian mused after their waitress set their meals down and left.

Mickey snorted softly, “you would think that it was a date with the running fairytale you have going in your head. How the hell was that a date?”

“It was totally a date,” Ian defended stoutly, “we had a moment, you asked me out and you paid for my food—date.”

“If I remember it clearly, you did me a solid, so I bought you a burger. Why are you so freaking schmoopy all the time?”

“Shmoopy? What are these words you use? You smiled at me the whole time, you told me about your childhood and asked about mine, plus you obviously wanted to fuck me so bad—date.”

Mickey scoffed, but wasn’t about to argue the point. “Just because that’s what was going on in your head…” he murmured.

Ian shrugged around his shake, “true, not gonna deny that. I had this really involved plan where we’d get into a fight with that group you kicked out of this table, one thing would lead to another and we’d consummate our love in the Escalade,” Ian said, “don’t roll your eyes at me, it’s complicated inside my head.” He kicked at Mickey’s feet before asking, “how were you imagining that evening would go.”

Mickey tapped a fry against his plate and gave Ian a slow, lopsided smile, “bathroom, corner stall… you blew my mind.”

Ian raised an eyebrow. “Well, that is a lot simpler and really quite doable,” he conceded as he finished his food. A moment later, he nodded at Mickey. “Go use the bathroom,” he directed, and Mickey glanced about cautiously out of habit, before sliding out of the booth. Ian watched Mickey walk off and quickly swiped the rest of his fries. When he was done, he wiped his hands and went to find his boyfriend.

* * *

“Navy Pier?” Mickey asked incredulously after he had parked and started following Ian through the streets towards the waterfront. “All that build up and you’re taking me to Navy fucking Pier?!”

“What’s wrong with Navy Pier?”

“It’s a fucking tourist trap, for one,” Mickey pointed out only to stop and see that the pier had been fully lit up and decked out for some sort of fair. “What’s going on?”

“Spring festival or something; the flyers were all over school.”

The crowd thickened the closer they got to the boardwalk. The place was full of people just happy and eager to be out with something to do after the long winter. The boardwalk was lined with booths filled with food and carnival games, with the giant Ferris wheel towering over it all.

“We’re staying out here,” Ian said while casually slipping his hand into Mickey’s, “it’s mostly kids’ and family stuff inside,” he said, nodding to the main building before moving further along the boardwalk.

“Um,” Mickey mumbled as Ian’s fingers intertwined with his. He glanced around at the crowd and chewed on his inner cheek as he followed Ian. He wound up pulling up the hood of his jacket and tugging it low over his face, but he didn’t let go of Ian’s hand. Ian’s reassuring smile told him that the compromise was one Ian could live with for the night. They had walked almost to the end of the boardwalk when Ian finally found what he was looking for.

“Oh, no fucking way,” Mickey said as he took in the Tunnel of Love ride. “You are the most ridiculous person.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“There have to be limits, Ian. What the holy fuck am I doing in a Tunnel of Love? This thing is for saps and hipsters who find everything ironically amusing.”

“I’m not exactly sure what you’re protesting here,” Ian said, clearly amused.

“Looking fucking ridiculous is what I’m protesting,” Mickey sputtered. He was a gangster for Pete’s sake, “I’m not going on that thing, and that’s all I’m saying about it.”

A few minutes later, Mickey pouted grumpily as he plopped down inside a giant, idiotic swan. Ian didn’t even have the decency to hide his amusement. “Look at the bright side, at least you didn’t say ‘and that’s final!’ because then this would really be funny,” Ian pointed out and Mickey simply pulled his hood down even lower and glowered ahead.

“Are you going to pout through the whole ride, because you’re seriously defeating the purpose of the whole ‘love’ thing. How am I supposed to feel you up in a socially acceptable manner when you’re all the way over there?” Ian asked. It was a fair point and Mickey sighed before begrudgingly sliding closer to Ian. “Life would be so much easier and happier for you if you just let me have my way all the time,” Ian whispered as he slid his hand up Mickey’s throat to his cheek and tilted Mickey’s head back so they could make out as God and the inventor of Love Tunnels intended.

By the end of the tunnel, Mickey had come around on the idea entirely. Where his body wasn’t burning from Ian’s secret touches, it tingled from the kisses and the salacious promises Ian had whispered in his ear. Mickey was red faced by the time the bored attendant ushered them out and Mickey figured that—where Ian was concerned—maybe it really was best to just shut up and go along for the ride.

“I can’t believe neither of us have ever done this,” Ian said and looked out across the water. The more he thought about it and discussed it with Dr. Lester, the more evident it became about just how robbed they were of normalcy and any semblance of a childhood. It was depressing as hell. “Decided what you want to do next?”

Mickey nodded and looked over at the Ferris wheel. He had been transformed, as he ever was, into a bashful little kid in the face of an unfamiliar, non-hostile, social situation. Sal had had the Milkoviches since they were kids, and as gregarious as the mobster was, Ian had wondered why he had never taken them anywhere like this. But he already knew the answer. It might not have been for lack of trying, but Sal was like Frank, whose idea of fun was always warped, borderline insane, never kid-appropriate, and at the end of the day, never any fun for anyone but himself. Ian draped an arm over Mickey’s shoulders and propelled him towards the ride.

Ian briefly left Mickey standing in the line to speak to the attendant loading the Ferris wheel. When it was their turn, they climbed into the red gondola and the teen closed the short doors behind them.

“Nice,” Mickey said when he realized they would be in the gondola alone. “What did it cost you?”

“It was fifty, but then I told him I was chockfull of anxiety and mental health issues and bargained him down to thirty.”

“Good going, slick,” Mickey teased. When the ride got underway, Mickey put a foot up on the seat and sat sideways so he could recline against Ian. As the Ferris wheel climbed and Ian nuzzled his ear, Mickey was compelled to ask, “what, not going to try anything? I’d figure you’d want to join the one-fiftieth of a mile high club.”

“Dude…” Ian grunted and indicated the neighbouring carriage where a small child was plastered to the transparent wall of her gondola, gaping at them while her family laughed and chatted around her. Behind them, a bunch of tourists oohed  and aahed and mistook the John Hancock Tower for the Sears one. They might have been alone in their gondola, but they were still completely exposed. “… although I do plan to try everything later.”

They sat in silence and took in their city in a way they’d never seen before. “This is nice,” Mickey murmured as he scratched lightly at Ian’s hand that circled his waist, and Ian hummed his agreement as the lights and the Chicago skyline rose and dipped with them. “We should do that again,” Mickey suggested after they got off and headed off to something new.

“Yeah, we should come back before they take this one down and install the new one. Then we should come back when they put in the new one!” Ian was off and running.

They decided to hit some of the carnival games next and Ian was gloating about his marksmanship before they’d even settled on a game. “I’m telling you, you should let me help you out,” he tutted to Mickey, “I’ve got so many things I could teach you.”

“Oh fuck you and your fancy, bougie training. I’ve had more practice than you could even dream about,” Mickey sneered, “when’s the last time you even held a piece, GI Joe?”

“We’ll see,” Ian sang out, and then it was on. At the first game, Ian took the toy rifle and began eliminating adorable, plastic ducks with extreme prejudice. A few giggling teenage girls were mightily impressed; Mickey, not so much. Mickey handed back the stuffed bear Ian had smarmily presented to him and went about a faux fauna demolishing spree of his own.

They hit stall after stall as their competition heated up and by the end of the night, there was no clear winner and they found themselves laden with a ridiculous number of stuffed toys and cheap carnival prizes. It was a struggle to get them to the Mustang. Mickey shook his head as Ian laboriously stuffed his classic muscle car with a bunch of cotton and acrylic.

“Choose one,” Mickey instructed Ian as he slid into the driver’s seat. His boyfriend looked at him as if he’d just shot Bambi’s mom and Old Yeller.

“What?!”

“Choose one,” Mickey repeated. “I’m not taking all this shit home. You get one, Mandy and the rugrats will each get one and the rest I’m dumping over at the toy drive. Which one, if any, are you keeping?”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘which one, if any’?! I’ve already given them names, Mick! I didn’t expect this evening to turn into Sophie’s choice!”

Mickey was unmoved, “you want me to choose for you?”

Ian hissed at him, but really had no issue choosing. He snatched up a leather-jacketed, rockabilly bear, complete with an awesome “gelled” coif that he had worked his ass off to get. He had had to break the heart of a high school girl in the process, but fuck her; neither she nor her boyfriend could shoot for shit.

“Is that supposed to be me?” Mickey asked drily, “… fucking schmoopy,” he sniffed, but grinned around his cigarette as he lit up.

He drove to the toy drive and ignored Ian’s loud protests as he trotted back and forth from the car to dump the toys—Ian staunchly refused to help on principle.

“Unwed mothers have no rights in this country!” Ian yelled after him as Mickey made his last trip. Ian took in what was left behind. His eyes fell on a rust-red teddy bear in a green hoodie that had been wedged behind Ian’s seat in an apparent attempt to conceal it and Mickey’s own schmoopiness. Ian gleefully picked it up.

By the time Mickey returned to his car, not only was Ian in the driver’s seat, but Ian was using his bear to nail the hell out of Ian’s rockabilly bear. Mickey had no idea which glaring issue to tackle first.

“Why are you in my seat?” he asked after reluctantly getting into the passenger side.

“Gonna take you somewhere and I’d rather just drive you there than tell you,” Ian said breezily, in an attitude that belied the fact that he currently had two stuffed animals engaged in a lewd act.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use my innocent bear to violently violate yours.”

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t refer to this or any other act of beautiful conscious coupling as violent violations, okay? These bears—like you and me—are nothing but mammals—”

“Jesus, don’t.”

Ian was unperturbed by the interruption. “—and as such, they’re just doing like they do on the Discovery channel.”

“Just drive.”

“They found love in a hopeless place, Mickey!”

“I hate you so much sometimes. Can we please just go?”

Ian gingerly handed Mickey the bears, started the car, and immediately stalled spectacularly. Mickey handled the mishap with his usual aplomb.

“Bitch, I will cut you!” he raged.

Ian tried not to laugh and risk evisceration. “I’m sorry; it’s been a little while since I drove a stick that wasn’t attached to a person. Will you relax a little?! You know, I’m starting to think you love this car more than me.”

“Of course I do! I just met your ass!”

Ian did burst out laughing then and managed to drive off without further incident.

* * *

The hotel was a surprise—a luxury high-rise on the waterfront of the Near North side. Mickey followed Ian out of the car and quickly intercepted the hand off of the keys between Ian and the eager valet who stepped forward. While Ian retrieved a bag from the trunk, Mickey palmed his keys and stared down the valet with such glaring intensity that the intimidated man stepped back and looked helplessly to Ian for some kind of rescue or direction.

“Mickey,” Ian sighed when he saw that Mickey wasn’t following him up the walkway to the hotel, “are you going to give him the keys or do you need him to pee submissively first?”

“Don’t grind my gears,” Mickey said bluntly and dropped the keys into the man’s damp, outstretched palm and slowly stepped around him. The valet was finally allowed to approach the car with kid gloves and step into it delicately while Ian tugged Mickey into the lobby.

They rode the elevator with a chatty businessman who seemed so nosy and interested in them, they were scared he’d try to horn in on their date. They kept waiting for him to put forth the idea of a threesome or simply letting him watch, and he seemed on the verge of doing just that, when Ian pulled Mickey off at the twenty-first floor. As the elevator doors closed, he yelled out the number of his junior suite and suggested they come see him if they “got bored.” Ian clapped a hand over Mickey’s mouth before the man could fire off a retort.

Ian opened the door and let Mickey into the room, with its modern grey and white motif, thick carpet and king bed. Mickey shrugged off his jacket and took off his shoes, anticipating the feel of his toes on the carpet, and laughed a little at the bottle of champagne chilling in its stand in front of the floor to ceiling window. “What no rose petals?” he asked, nodding to the pristine bed, with its sharply folded grey and white sheets and neatly arranged pillows.

“Alex and Mandy said that that would be too much,” Ian said sheepishly, “did you know they’ve started hanging out now? I don’t even know how that happened,” he said and set the duffle bag down into an overstuffed chair. “It feels like one of the signs of the apocalypse.”

Mickey snorted and popped the champagne bottle so he could take a swig. He stared out at the lake while he wriggled his toes into the carpet and mused that he had been in hotel rooms like this probably dozens of times, but had never spent more than a minute in one. It was always simply to drop off some mobster’s lover, hear any instructions, then disappear into the ether until he was summoned again. He had never really contemplated spending the night in a room like this. It simply hadn’t entered his thoughts, any more than the idea of skiing down the Alps or riding giant Ferris wheels by the waterside. For the most part he had figured it was better that way. You can’t miss things you’ve never experienced; you can’t yearn for things you don’t dwell on. You can’t really fail and suffer from the deprivation if you don’t want more.

“You like it?” Ian asked, hugging Mickey from behind as his confident façade splintered a bit beneath the niggling anxiety that his planned evening had been a misfire. He went back and forth between thinking it was a great idea to do something together they had never really done before and feeling that it was probably pushing Mickey too far out of his comfort zone.

“It’s nice,” Mickey said softly, “I mean it’s cool up here.”

“Really, like you’re actually having fun? You’re not just saying it’s—”

“It’s nice,” Mickey repeated and dropped the champagne bottle back into its ice bucket. He turned to face Ian, “it’s kind of amazing actually,” he admitted and watched the relief soften Ian’s gaze. He tugged on the hem of Ian’s T-shirt. “But how does the rest of the evening go?”

Ian pulled Mickey against him and dipped his head to capture Mickey’s lips. The kiss deepened and heated up quickly and soon Mickey was roughly tugging Ian’s shirt over his head to toss it aside. “Take your pants off,” he whispered urgently against Ian’s mouth as he yanked at Ian’s belt. Ian cupped Mickey’s face with both hands, holding still long enough so they could properly resume the kiss. However, in the next instant, Ian was pulling away.

“We need to take a shower,” he said imperiously and headed off to the bathroom leaving a bereft Mickey in his wake.

“What, now?” Mickey asked as he watched Ian strip off his clothes and leave them behind him like a trail of breadcrumbs. “I thought we were having a moment here. Do I offend or something?”

“Why are you not in here yet?” Ian yelled from the shower and Mickey could not resist that clarion call.

* * *

Mickey’s gasps and moans were muffled by the pillow as Ian’s tongue pressed inside him. His knees burned from kneeling so long against the soft sheets, but he was beyond caring. His eyes were wet and his body trembled as Ian raked light fingers over his buttock, down his straining thighs, right down to the sole of his feet to squeeze his curled toes.

It always felt as if Ian’s hands were everywhere, roaming his body, spreading him apart, massaging his balls and stroking his cock, while Ian’s tongue plunged into him as aggressively as something that wet and soft and slick and warm could. When Mickey came, he came hard, stifling his scream into the downy pillow while his body shuddered through its relief. He collapsed gracelessly onto the bed and could feel, rather than hear, Ian’s chuckle against the back of his thigh, just as he felt the wet kiss Ian planted on his inner thigh.

Ian continued kissing him, slowly, thoroughly, on his ass, up his lower back, until Mickey could feel Ian nipping at his shoulder and the hard length of Ian’s erection scraping tantalizingly against his heated skin. Ian then playfully slapped him on the ass and moved off the bed.

Mickey couldn’t take his eyes off him, and he watched, breathlessly, as Ian unzipped the duffle bag he had taken with them. Ian pulled out two items and held them up for inspection. “What do you think?” Ian asked, holding up a pair of soft leather bondage cuffs in one hand, and a silk tie in the other. “What are you more in the mood for?”

Mickey’s eyes fastened on the cuffs. Those were new. “When did you get that?” he asked thickly.

“Started looking after I eighty-sixed your other handcuffs,” Ian explained, “I told you we could compromise on that. So which is it?” Ian asked again. Mickey wetted his lips and fidgeted in the bed; the anticipation already threatening to boil over inside him. He nodded briefly and wordlessly at the cuffs, and Ian smirked knowingly at his choice. “Had a feeling you’d go for this one,” Ian said as he climbed back into bed. “Still, kind of a shame to leave out the tie though…”

He nudged Mickey’s hip, prompting Mickey to roll over onto his back, and Mickey automatically presented his hands to be bound. Ian ran his thumb over the faux fur lining of the cuffs and watched Mickey as he tightened the straps of each restraint. “Good?” he asked, and Mickey grunted his contentment before he raised his arms above his head to put them through the metal spindles of the headboard.

“I felt like the worst kind of perv,” Ian began as he linked the cuffs and secured Mickey to the headboard. “I searched through about a dozen hotel websites online before I found this one with pictures of the right kind of bed. Then I got paranoid about whether the photos were current or if all the rooms were like that… so I called.” Ian grinned sheepishly when Mickey let out a snort of laughter. “Best part of it was how the rep just answered me like I was asking about the available views; just reeled off the bed stats. You can tell she’s heard some shit. I kind of want to work in the hotel industry now, just for the stories,” he joked. “Good?” he asked Mickey again, “you’re going to be like that for a while.”

Mickey’s answer was to slowly wet his lips and writhe sensually against the expensive sheets. Ian got the message loud and clear. Ian picked up the tie and slowly doubled it. He looked from Mickey to the tie and back again. “How okay are you with being blindfolded?”

“Jesus, you can douse me in gasoline and set me on fire right now, I’d be okay with it,” Mickey replied.

“Extreme, but it does sound like you’re down for it,” Ian laughed.

It felt as if as soon Mickey was blindfolded, Ian disappeared. Mickey then heard him moving about the room, humming happily to himself as he did god knows what. Before Mickey could claim abandonment, Ian was back and sliding a warm hand up Mickey’s thigh and electrifying him. Mickey’s breathing quickened as he felt Ian straddle him and lean forward to nuzzle his neck, kiss his chest and lick at his nipple. The shock of feeling the piece of ice Ian had been holding in his cheek hitting his nipple had Mickey arching off the bed.

“Sneaky shit,” Mickey gasped, and Ian only hummed and glided the shrinking ice cube down Mickey’s chest. Ian pulled back to blow gently over the chilly trail and Mickey’s entire body shivered. “Jesus,” Mickey whispered, only to be distracted by Ian’s hands—one cool, one warm—roving over his body. But soon there was nothing but the feel of Ian stroking one of his feet while settled between Mickey’s legs. Mickey waited a moment for the ministrations to resume. When Ian didn’t move except to keep stroking his foot, Mickey piped up.

“What are you doing?”

“Enjoying the view,” Ian responded without missing a beat.

“Don’t you do that shit right now, I swear to god!”

“What ‘shit’ is that?”

“Just sitting there staring at me like a creep.”

“Okay, I really have to take issue with the uncharitable way you describe elements of our lovemaking. I’m not ‘staring at you like a creep,’ I’m admiring you and seeing how fast I can get you blushing like a tomato.”

“Fucking creep,” Mickey said and nudged Ian with his heel. “Will you just get on me?”

“I really should do something about that mouth of yours,” Ian sighed, “I’ve been researching, they say I should be firm about punishments when you’re disobedient and uncooperative.”

Mickey was unimpressed, “who the fuck is ‘they’? And you’ve been researching? What, Preston doesn’t give you enough homework?”

“You want to know about one of my favourite things?” Ian said, determined to ignore Mickey’s impatient huffing and continue his worship, “the sounds you make when I do things to you,” Ian sighed and trailed an idle finger over a now silent Mickey’s thigh. “You make very specific sounds for specific things and it’s amazing. Like when I do this—” Ian said and gently massaged Mickey’s perineum, eliciting a soft moan, “—or when I do this.” Ian murmured and swiped his thumb over the slit of Mickey’s slowly filling cock. “I like doing little combos—making little Mickey melodies,” he laughed. “I’m still figuring you out, but give me a couple years and I’ll be making whole symphonies out of you.”

Mickey was silent for a moment before letting out an exasperated groan—another Mickey noise he knew quite well. “Oh my god, why are you this fucking corny? Can you just shut the fuck up and get on me already?!”

It was a needle scratch of a moment and suddenly everything stopped: the hand rubbing Mickey’s foot, the little demonstrations to make him moan. All Mickey could hear was Ian’s annoyed, defeated sigh. Before Mickey could say another word, he heard a tersely uttered “fine,” and felt Ian reaching over him.

“Wait, what are you—” Mickey sputtered before fully panicking as he felt Ian start to undo one of the cuffs, “no, NO! Wait, come on, I was just—alright, _ALRIGHT!_ ” he yelled as he felt one of the restraints slacken, “I’ll be quiet then.”

“I don’t want you to be quiet,” Ian said, pausing his scare tactic, “I just want you to be patient and cooperate a little when I want to do this.”

“Alright, fine…” Mickey capitulated, “… you can be creepy.”

Ian rolled his eyes but retightened the cuffs before staring down silently at his bound and blindfolded boyfriend. He reached down and slowly swiped his thumb beneath Mickey’s lower lip. “I really should do something about that mouth of yours.”

There was a moment of uncertainty for Mickey before he felt Ian move astride him again. Ian’s legs hemmed in his arms and the heady heat and scent of Ian’s arousal made Mickey’s mind stall.

“Open,” Ian ordered, his voice low and hoarse, making Mickey’s cock twitch. Mickey was more than happy to comply. He opened his mouth, taking in Ian’s thick, hard length as deeply as he could and raising his head for more. He felt the first tug of the restraints as he instinctively pulled against them to touch Ian and swallow him down.

Ian braced one hand against the wall and gripped the back of Mickey’s head tightly by the hair in an effort to keep him still and prevent Mickey from doing too much in trying to please him. He rolled his hips, fucking Mickey’s mouth slowly while gauging Mickey’s reaction. He groaned as Mickey enticed him to move faster and deeper as he sucked on the head of Ian’s cock and flicked his tongue hungrily over the leaking slit. Ian gave in; he moved faster and deeper until his harsh, loud panting mingled with Mickey’s muffled moans. When Mickey started gagging, Ian pulled away and released Mickey’s hair. The latter fell back against the bed and tried to catch his breath.

“Good?” Ian said at length as he wiped Mickey’s face.

“Yeah good, fuck, green,” Mickey panted, indicated that he was good to go and raring to continue. Ian moved away to settle once again between Mickey’s thighs and quickly slicked himself with some lube.

“Want me to get on you?” Ian teased lightly and tossed the lube to the side of the bed.

“Please,” Mickey groaned, “please…” and the appeal gave way to keening as Ian pushed inside him. “Please,” Mickey begged again as Ian moved hard and fast and deep inside, making Mickey’s body bow off the bed as he wrapped his legs around Ian’s waist. Ian gripped Mickey’s throat, ending the latter’s pleas by giving him just what he wanted until once again came apart in Ian’s grasp. Ian came with him and the two were left heaving and spent next to each other.

“No, don’t fall asleep,” Ian chided softly after he released Mickey from his restraints and Mickey turned to burrow against him and drift off. “I haven’t even cleaned up yet.”

Mickey didn’t see why he even needed to be awake for that. He watched with growing disbelief as Ian headed for the duffle bag once again. “Dude, are you serious right now?” he croaked, “I mean, the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak… and will probably start to get sore soon.”

Ian laughed and shook his head. Instead of pulling out another toy, he pulled out a small, rectangular, gift-wrapped box. He tossed it next to Mickey’s head and went to get some things to clean up.

“What’s this?” Mickey asked while rolling over the box in his hands.    

“The directions to Sesame Street,” Ian said as he settled behind Mickey. “You’d figure it out faster if you opened it.”

Mickey toyed with the box a while longer, trying not to turn Ian’s thoughtful gesture into something weird. It wasn’t that Mickey wasn’t accustomed to receiving gifts. Working for Sal, getting gifts was a given. Still, they only came after being earned, whether for doing the crime or the time, or to soften a blow. “Gifts” were never free, and Mickey had been conditioned to expect something irritating, at best, or dire, at worst, to accompany a present. He could feel Ian’s eyes on him, so he shook off his unease and opened the gift. He tore away the wrapping and opened the box to reveal a simple, solid gold, rope chain. Mickey stared at it before rubbing it between his fingers and holding it aloft.

“Is this real?” he asked sceptically.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘is this real’?! Are you kidding me?! Of course it is,” Ian snapped, “I’m not going to buy shit that’s going to turn you green three days later,” he huffed before quietening as Mickey continued examining the chain. “What, you don’t like it?”

“I like it,” Mickey said and turned to beam at Ian, “you know I would.”

Ian didn’t hide his pleasure as Mickey put on the chain. “There is one thing though.”

And there it was. Mickey tensed slightly as he looked up at Ian. “What?”

“You can’t take it off.”

“What?”

“You can’t take it off.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said,” Ian told him, “and because you’re mine.”

Mickey stared for a moment, noting yet again that the love of his life had turned out to be the weirdest guy. “Yeah, okay,” Mickey mumbled, smiling softly to himself as he tugged at the chain, “but how am I supposed to wear this with a suit?” he asked suddenly, “I’m not trying to be tacky.”

Ian laughed, “wear it underneath, just as long as you do. No one really needs to know you’re wearing it but me.”

Today, the chain; tomorrow, what then? This directive felt like a slippery slope, but Mickey was more than willing to take that ride. “Never though?”

Ian rolled his eyes heavenward, “well, okay, obviously if there are extenuating circumstances and if I give you special permission, but other than that…” Ian said, “now turn over, let me finish up.”

* * *

“You are rough in the morning,” Mickey teased Ian as he ran a hand over Ian’s stubble. Daylight was pouring into the room through the huge window and Ian quailed against it. He grunted grumpily and buried his head in Mickey’s chest. “Not to say it’s a bad look on you,” Mickey continued while he made soft spikes in Ian’s messy hair, “but still… rough.”

“Shut up,” Ian rasped, “still sleeping.”

“What time is check out?”

“Noon.”

“It’s after ten though. Don’t you think we should—”

“Noon tomorrow,” Ian groaned, and buried his head a little lower.

“Jesus, Ian, how many wrinkled, old dicks did you suck to pay for all this shit?”

“I don’t know,” Ian moaned dramatically, “it’s all a blur, but I’ll probably be coughing up grey hairballs for weeks!”

Mickey grinned and continued stroking Ian’s hair while he contemplated how to say thank you. He knew the perfect way, but god was it going to hurt. He pulled at Ian’s ear and murmured under his breath, “daddy’s so good to me.” He could feel Ian’s grin come to life against his stomach.

“Fucking right!”

“I regret this immediately,” Mickey sighed as Ian’s head shot up. “I thought you said you were sleeping?”

“Oh, daddy’s wide awake now.”

“I fucking hate you,” Mickey laughed as Ian grabbed him. “Get the fuck off me!”

* * *

Mandy grinned as her brother dropped backwards over the back of the couch to sprawl upside-down next to her. Seeing her brother happy and relaxed was a phenomenon that was getting more frequent lately, and it never failed to lift her own mood. He gallantly presented her with a teddy bear while Ian closed the front door of the pool house and got ready to head upstairs. She gave them both a once over. They looked happy and sated and it was utterly disgusting.

“Had fun?” she asked her brother.

“Eh, it was alright,” Mickey shrugged and grinned at Ian’s answering snort. Mandy quickly zoned in on Mickey’s shiny new addition.

“New bling, huh? Lemme see it.”

“Nooo, you can’t!”

“Don’t be such a boob-punch, Mickey, hand it over, let me see!”

Ian headed upstairs and left the two squabbling and roughhousing on the couch. They’d have to referee themselves; he needed the rest of his beauty sleep.

* * *

He was awash in cold sweat when he awoke. He didn’t think he’d ever felt this sick and this wretched in his life. He flailed a bit and reached out to grab onto the warm body that should have been next to him, desperate for company and comfort. There was no one there though, nothing but cool sheets beneath his clammy hands.

He was going to be sick. His stomach churned and heaved and his entire body shook. He rolled clumsily off the bed, in dire need of the bathroom, and his bare feet hit the cold, cluttered floor painfully. He couldn’t afford to watch his step, despite the dangerous paraphernalia that littered the apartment. He lurched towards the bathroom, but just barely made it through the door before he threw up. It hardly mattered anyway; there was no one there to see it.

He looked around the empty apartment, calling feebly for someone to come help him. The continued roiling of his stomach warned him that this wasn’t the end of his trial and he shook so badly, he couldn’t manage to stay upright. He looked back at the bed. Not only were his companions gone, but so were his shoes, his clothes, everything. The fuckers had looted him, taken all he had and had just left him there alone, disoriented and dope sick, while they faded away like a fever dream. The party was over.

He had to beg for some change. There wasn’t even a dime to be found in that apartment; scrubbed clean—in a way—as it had been. They had taken his shoes, his fucking shoes, and he was forced to plod heavily into the harsh light of day, looking and smelling like a bum, in stained clothing and socked feet. At least it wasn’t winter.

He had managed to scare up some change, courtesy of nervous people who threw it at him to get away. But now as he stared uncomprehendingly at the vandalized payphone, he realized he couldn’t remember a single number. All his memory was in his phone, and that was long gone too. He wracked his brain trying to recall a number, any number; a process which was hard enough when he was well and wasn’t in danger of collapsing and shitting his pants on the sidewalk. He simply couldn’t pull his thoughts together in his throbbing head. He didn’t think it was possible to feel this sick and depleted. Jesus, when was the last time he even _dialled_ a number? He picked up the phone, fed in the coins, and prayed for a miracle.

* * *

The buzz had yet to wear off. Mickey had vowed to knock himself silly the next time he caught himself smiling at nothing like a moron. He was alone in the house, his siblings scattered to the wind, and Ian had his last day of school.

“Next time you see me, I’ll be a sophomore,” Ian had whispered into his neck; proud and awed that he’d survived his first year intact in more ways than one.

“Nothing ‘soph’ about you though,” Mickey had said, and dork that he was, Ian had lost it laughing forever.

Ian was going to take off with Alex and their friends to celebrate afterwards and Mickey was left at home wondering how he was going to treat Ian for his accomplishment. Obviously they needed their own celebration. He was deep in thought when the house phone rang—a sound so alien to him, it took him a moment to identify it. He stepped cautiously out of his room and located the nearest handset in Sal’s office. He stared at it uncertainly before slowly picking up.

“Hello?”

“Mickey, help me.”

* * *

He found Sal huddled on a bench at a bus stop. The contact Dre had sent to help Sal over his dope sickness had come and gone long before Mickey had pulled up. Now Sal was quiet and calm, nearly to the point of being comatose, but he looked up when Mickey exited the brown station wagon.

“Where’s the Escalade?” he asked Mickey when the latter came around to face him.

Mickey leaned against the car door and sniffed, “just got it detailed; I’m not stinking it up.”

Sal nodded and stared down at his hands with rheumy eyes while Mickey stared off down the street; neither man quite able to look at the other.

At length, it was Sal who finally spoke again. “Take me home.”

* * *

By the time they got home, Mickey had grown accustomed to the smell. He helped Sal out of the car and guided him into the pool house, up the stairs and into Ian’s abandoned bedroom. In the bathroom, Mickey ran the bath and helped Sal take off his filthy clothes before gently lowering the older man into the warm water. Sal seemed old and fragile; two words Mickey would never had associated with Sal. He teased Sal about his age all the time, but he never once actually considered Sal old. Fragile? Never. The other Sal was a titan and this pathetic creature soaking away his grime in a tub didn’t even seem like the same species. Mickey quickly discarded the clothes and came back to help.

“I was fooled,” Sal said after the long silence as Mickey washed him, drained the water, and then started all over again. “I thought I could get away from this; start something new, but this is all there is.”

“You ran off with a couple of dope fiends; what the fuck did you expect?” Mickey sneered as if taking off with a poor, damaged, idealistic college kid would be any better. How would he and Ian have been punished for their hubris? “You should have planned it better,” Mickey said, holding on stubbornly to his dream, “instead of just following your cock. Maybe it would have worked then.”

“That wasn’t it,” Sal shook his head slowly, “I was tired, Mickey, off all this shit… the disrespect, the stagnation, the fucking futility of it. I thought I could escape it, but it’s impossible. I just needed a break to see it. For men like us; this is it.”

“Men like us?” Mickey echoed hollowly.

“Vermin,” Sal answered, “trash… gilded garbage,” he said before laughing bitterly. “You try to crossover and they can smell it on you, won’t treat you any different; it’s in our skin, you know?”

“What the fuck are you even talking about? What the fuck do you know? You didn’t try anything! You just laid up in a fucking crack house for weeks feeling sorry for yourself while everyone else dealt with your shit!”

If Sal heard Mickey’s outburst, he gave no indication. “We’re trash, and this is the garbage heap we’re stuck in, but it doesn’t have to be bad, does it?” he said and then startled Mickey by turning to rest a wet hand on Mickey’s cheek. “I’m going to fix it, Mickey; make it alright again. I’m going to turn this shit around. I know you worry, but I’m going to fix it all: Fishetti, the money, the fucking Feds, everything. I’ll be king of this fucking trash heap.”

“How?” Mickey whispered hoarsely, feeling strange and small and completely bewildered.

“You don’t have to worry at all,” he said, apparently ignoring the question. “Don’t you lose faith in me, Mick; you stick with me. I’m Salvatore Boerio, and I always take care of my own.” 

* * *

It was late evening when Ian stumbled into the pool house. He was drunk and giggly and aching for his boyfriend. He shrugged off his jacket with some difficulty and was about to go hollering for Mickey when the man in question stepped out of the kitchen. Ian grinned broadly at him, though in the back of his mind he noted that it had been a while since he’d seen Mickey this done up in his full mob regalia—the pristine suit and overcoat. He stepped towards him, but the terse way Mickey shook his head stopped Ian in his tracks and sobered him immediately.

“Mick, what’s—” he was cut off as the bathroom door behind Mickey opened and a long forgotten figure stepped out. The newcomer’s face lit up upon seeing Ian, even as Ian’s face fell.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Sal said and he stepped around Mickey to go and envelop a stunned young man into a warm embrace. “Fuck have I missed you.”

Ian’s eyes danced wildly as he struggled to process what was happening to him—to them. As Sal crushed him closer, Ian looked to Mickey for some sort of explanation but Mickey only dipped his head and looked away as Sal started swaying slowly with Ian.

“Everything’s okay now,” Sal crooned. “I’m home.”    


	28. ... but you're playing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> "Dolly house mash up": Jamaican phrase referring to the interruption and/or revelation of a (usually illicit) relationship.  
> Wonderland: A reference to the Wonderland Murders; four brutal murders which took place in 1981 in Los Angeles.

Ian couldn’t believe he was here again—lying in the dark, staring unseeingly at the ceiling while the heavy weight of Sal’s arm, thrown carelessly across his chest, threatened to crush him. He slowly looked over at Sal, who lay fast asleep, defiantly snoring into the quiet of the room. Ian hadn’t even finished reeling from the shock of Sal’s return, only to see the man march confidently into the bedroom to turn in, as if the last few weeks hadn’t happened, as if time had stood still. Neither Ian nor Mickey had known how to play it, and while Mickey hovered anxiously in the passageway, Ian had hesitantly gone in when Sal called.

Mercifully, Sal hadn’t wanted sex, though Ian wouldn’t have put the outrageous request past the older man. All Sal had wanted for the moment was company—Ian’s preferably—and to be held while he recovered from the rattling experience of dope sickness and abandonment. Ian briefly considered resisting, but Sal was a wounded animal in his vulnerability, as liable to lash out as he was to crumble at any moment. The last thing Ian needed was for this mess to explode while he was still confused and tipsy and couldn’t think straight, so he found himself in that old place again, begrudgingly placating a lifelong addict as he shuddered through his latest comedown.

Ian didn’t sleep that night, caught as he was between his fear of Sal becoming amorous and his worry over the thoughts and feelings that were probably coursing through Mickey. When Sal shambled off surprisingly early the next morning, Ian feigned sleep until he was sure the man was gone. Ian then quickly got dressed and went in search of Mickey, all the while hoping that Sal hadn’t dragged him off somewhere. He was relieved when he found Mickey in the kitchen sipping black coffee with Mandy, who looked as shell-shocked as Ian felt. He reached for Mickey, more out of habit than conscious thought, and was sharply rebuffed.

“The fuck are you doing?!” Mickey said, shaking him off and glancing nervously towards the front door.

The regression of it all hit Ian hard at that moment and all he could do was scoff before stalking off to the basement, shaking his head and slamming the door behind him. Mickey scratched the back of his neck nervously, feeling unsettled and uncomfortable in his skin in a way he hadn’t before. Sal’s return had upended everything. Nothing felt the same way it had before Sal had left and now the oasis he had created with Ian in Sal’s absence had been irreparably disrupted. There was no sense of normalcy on any level. Instead, it was just Mickey feeling set adrift in this weird place where he didn’t feel at ease with Sal, but couldn’t be at peace with Ian either. He looked over and saw Mandy shaking her head at him.

“Shut up,” he hissed at her, “just keep watch and yell if Sal circles back.” He left her to go after Ian and found him pacing the basement in agitation. “Hey, you okay?”

Ian paused his pacing to stare up at Mickey anxiously as the latter descended the stairs. “I don’t know; are we okay?”

Mickey stopped in front of Ian just beyond arm’s reach. “Did the two of you…?”

“No, I didn’t fuck him,” Ian said tiredly, “Jesus Christ, are we really back here again? I don’t think he could even if he wanted to, and I sure as fuck wasn’t going to, Mickey!”

“I’m just saying that you need to be extra careful. Who knows what kind of shit he’s being doing,” Mickey mumbled as he stared down awkwardly at the floor.

“Why the fuck did you bring him back here?” Ian finally asked and that made Mickey’s head snap up.

“As opposed to what, Ian? Leaving him at a bus stop and barring him from coming here—to his own fucking property?!” Mickey snapped, “You think he was just going to wander the earth forever while we played house here? You didn’t think he was ever going to come back? _This_ little contingency wasn’t in your grand fucking plan when you decided to move the fuck in?!”

Ian rocked on the balls of his feet and stared at the ceiling while Mickey ranted away and blew off a little of his pent up anxiety. When Mickey petered out, Ian looked him in the eyes. “I just want to know that we’re okay, and that you’re not buying into his shit again.”

“Ian—”

Ian closed the distance between them and grabbed Mickey’s face between his hands, quashing Mickey’s efforts to stay standoffish. “I know what you’re feeling and I know what you want to believe, but I have been down this road more times than I care to remember and I can tell you he is not here for you, Mick,” Ian said urgently, while forcing Mickey to look at him. “He’s not back because he’s remorseful, or ready to change, or willing to set things right. He’s here because he’s an addict who was out of money and resources and had nowhere else to go. He’s not back for you or his wife or anyone else. He’s here because he needs a crutch and he’ll have no problems taking off again and dumping his shit on you the next time the notion strikes him. I don’t want you throwing away all the progress we’ve made out of the misguided belief that he’s returned to make it all better.”

“I’m not!” Mickey said as he broke out of Ian’s grasp, “I’m not a fucking idiot. I’m not—” Mickey crossed his arms and backed further away. “I’m just saying we need to be careful again, that’s all… until we figure shit out.”

Ian sighed heavily. Mickey was antsy, barely even meeting his eyes, and Ian could feel the weeks carefully spent building the possibility of life together away from this mess being slowly shot to shit by Sal’s reappearance. Ian wiped a hand over his face. “I gotta go to work,” he said to Mickey before storming out of the basement and out the front door while Mickey remained behind.

When Mickey re-emerged from the basement, Mandy was still sitting at the kitchen island, sipping her coffee. “Didn’t go so well?” she asked.

“It’s going to fuck up everything having Sal back.”

“Well, I doubt he’ll be around for long if that’s any consolation,” Mandy sniffed, “until then, you don’t have to freak out every time Ian comes within ten feet of you. Play it cool enough and Sal, dumb fuck that he is, won’t be any the wiser. Jesus, Linda’s been fucking around for years in front of him and he hasn’t caught a clue yet.”

Mickey’s jaw slackened and he stared bug-eyed at his sister. “Linda’s having an affair?! Who the fuck with?!”

* * *

Linda laughed airily as long fingers skimmed over the bare skin of her thigh, circled her hip and continued up her side, leaving a ticklish trail. Her lover sang softly of her grace, beauty and, ultimately, her baked ziti skills. Linda laughed out loud at that.

“You’re a silly boy.”

“Such slander,” Tony Salerno tutted, “how can you say a thing like that to me? Don’t you know I’m a dangerous, dangerous man?”

“Not to me,” she chirped carelessly.

“No,” Tony admitted as his eyes followed his fingers’ path down her lithe body, “… never to you.”

Linda smiled at him softly and reached out to run her fingers through his hair. “Underboss,” she sniffed quietly, “it’s going to turn all this glossy hair of yours grey.”

“So I’ll be a silver fox then, right?” he joked, “won’t you still love me?”

Linda shrugged noncommittally as she settled back against the overstuffed pillows on Tony’s bed. “Let’s see how it goes.”

Tony laughed as he got up and slipped on his pyjama bottoms. He opened the curtains to his bedroom and let in the morning sunlight, making Linda groan miserably and bury herself beneath the covers. He grinned at the fidgeting lump she made and went to check his phone for any messages.

“When was the last time you spoke to Salvatore?” he asked her lightly as he scrolled through his messages and alerts. Linda fought her way out to the surface once again.

“Ugh, who even knows about that toad? The last thing I heard was the last thing you told me. Is he still whooping it up with basehead Bonnie and Clyde?”

“He’s back home,” he said, his tone cool and quiet as he shocked her into stillness.

“Back home?” she echoed, “at the house? My house?!”

“Mickey went to get him yesterday. Seems he’s out of steam for now.”

Linda sat up and gathered the sheets around her, feeling suddenly strange and unsettled now that Sal was evidently back home and in her mind’s eye again. “I left the hospital and came straight here… I didn’t know,” she murmured, but then snapped when she could feel Tony’s gaze boring into her. “What?!”

“His behaviour has been disgraceful for the longest time to say the least, but this? This has gone beyond the realm of acceptability. Anyone else, Linda; anyone else would have been nothing but a bad memory years ago,” Tony said. “Fischetti stays his hand because of you,” he continued, the accusation gentle, but an accusation none the less. “As such I’m bound, as is anyone else, from correcting this.”

Linda scoffed and gave a defiant toss of her head. “Again with this,” she moaned, “are you seriously going to keep hounding me for permission to murder my fucking husband?! Just so he can stop making your glorified boys’ club of bullies look bad?”

“The Outfit has enough problems without some gross, pathetic addict shaming us,” Tony admitted, “but you know that’s not my primary concern. Linda, I want to free you from this—from him. Why you continue to allow this; how you can continue to have love for someone while holding such contempt for them baffles me.”

Linda laughed bitterly, “oh, you’d be surprised how easily it happens. If you and my uncle want to ‘fix’ Sal, then you do what you feel you have to, but you won’t get my permission to do it. I won’t sanction murder, not for Sal, not for anyone,” she said, her voice tense and clipped. She clambered off the bed and went in search of her clothes, clearly agitated. “I’m not a part of this shit. I’m not a fucking mobster who orders hits! I’m a doctor, for God’s sake; I took an oath. I’m a good person. I’m a—”

“—good Catholic girl?” Tony suggested. “That’s part of this, isn’t it? A good Catholic girl doesn’t order a hit on her husband; sure as hell can’t divorce him. A good Catholic girl wouldn’t even think about getting mixed up with the mob life; she stays clean. Then again, a good Catholic girl wouldn’t fool around with a lapsed Catholic boy like me either.”

“Oh fuck you and fuck them!” she said in heretic exasperation, sweeping an arm dramatically about the room to blanket the church and her critics. “I try to do everything I’m supposed to, but Salvatore would steal the testimony of a saint. Every time I’ve slipped it’s been him—”

“Then why keep him?” Tony challenged, “You think he can make it right again; with you, with the kids? The fucker who ruins something is rarely ever the one to restore it. He’s not going to fix this, Linda. You’re not going to be the proper wife with the ambitious, respectable husband with the good reputation. It’s never going to happen—” he paused at the stricken look on her face. He went to her to pull her against him. “You did good on your own, Lin. Fuck everything and everyone else; fuck the things they’ll say and what they might think. What should that matter? Let me free you.”

Linda sighed and buried her face against his chest and stayed silent, unable to articulate any of the feelings coursing through her. She could feel Tony gearing up to speak again, perhaps to cajole her some more. Mercifully, the sound of her buzzer going off saved her from further conflict—at least for now. She pulled abruptly out of Tony’s grasp and finished dressing quickly and wordlessly, too aware of Tony’s eyes on her. When she closed his bedroom door behind her as she left, she could hear him quietly sigh.

* * *

“I can’t fucking believe this!” Ian howled to the sky as he and Alex took their lunch break on the roof of the supermarket. “It’s like he fucking felt it, I swear to god, Allie. We were doing so great and Mickey was making so much progress. I mean things got overwhelming and he had that mini-meltdown, and that was awful, but Mickey worked past it and we were doing so good. So what does this fucker do? He comes back like he’s the fucking walking dead and fucks everything up! I mean Jesus Christ, how fucking hard is it for an addict like him to OD in ditch somewhere?!”

“Whoa, Ian,” Alex gasped, a little shocked by her friend’s vehemence, “you went zero dark a thousand really fucking fast.”

“That’s not how you use that,” Ian told her tiredly, “that’s not what that means. You can’t just co-opt military terms willy-nilly.”

“Just saying, I fully advocate for you and Mickey to get as far away from the asshole as possible, but do we really need him overdosing in a gutter? Besides, is Mickey regressing that badly already?”

“He hasn’t even been back a full twenty-four hours and already Mickey can’t look at me right,” Ian sighed and rubbed at his face with his hands. “You’re right though; dreaming of an overdose is wrong. Mickey’s made so much progress in spite of everything. I just need to keep him focused and show him of all the possibilities of the future we could have together, and then just kill Sal myself.”

Alex spat her diet Coke halfway across the roof before frantically whipping her head about to see if anyone had heard. “Ian!”

“No, you’re right; overdoses are messy and unpredictable. I’d need a method that makes sure he stays dead.”

“Ian Clayton Gallagher, you are not killing anyone!” she squeaked, “stop kidding around!”

“Who’s kidding? I could probably even make it look accidental. Maybe if I fucked him like I meant it for once. He’s gotta have a heart like Swiss cheese by now, right?”

“Ian!”

“Alex, it would be a murder, but not a crime. Not even murder… more like community service at this point. He has a pathological hold on Mickey and if I could just get him out of the way for a while—or permanently—maybe Mickey will have a real shot of breaking free of this mess…”

* * *

“And then he just spends the rest of our lunch break just coming up with these Machiavellian murder plots. I can’t even!” Alex moaned as she flailed around the roof of her building later that evening, much to Dre’s amusement.

“Sayonara Salvatore, huh?” he laughed.

“Not funny!” she huffed.

Dre only laughed some more from his seat on the vent. “Look, don’t worry about it. Gingerbread is a fierce motherfucker, but he’s not a killer. I’m not saying he’s incapable of dropping a dude, but it’s more likely to be self-defence or crime of passion/heat of the moment type thing. He’s not gonna plan shit and execute it. He’s not the type. He’s just blowing off steam.”

She paused her agitated pacing and stared at him. He sounded so assured.  “You think so?” she asked uncertainly.

“The man’s venting. Sal’s back, dolly house mash up; he’s understandably pissed and frustrated. He’s not a killer, and it’s not his move to make.”

Alex was quiet for a moment as she shifted her weight from foot to foot and contemplated Dre’s words. “Is Mickey a killer?” she mused out loud before looking at Dre and tacking on as nonchalantly as she could, “are you one?”

Dre’s small smile was enigmatic and maddening. “It’s cute that you’re trying to be flip about it. You’re failing miserably by the way,” he teased before giving a slight shrug. “Mickey and I are soldiers, for want of a better word.”

“Soldiers,” she repeated, “what’s the difference between a soldier and a killer?”

“Context,” he said and grinned broadly at her perplexed look. “You know, you spend a whole lot of time outwardly focused.”

“I think Mickey said something like that to me once,” she said dryly. “He didn’t say it nearly as tactfully.”

“I’m just wondering what Alexis Alden does when she’s not fretting over the crazy dudes in her life, giving herself stress ulcers and smoking up my mildest weed. What’s fun for you?”

“Since when do stoners need additional activities?”

Dre snorted loudly, “I serve stoners. I know stoners. Stoners are very good friends of mine. Lady, you’re no stoner. Still, who would turn down the company of such a lovely imposter?” he said with an air of suggestiveness that had Alex reddening. She distracted herself from her thoughts by trying to answer his question.

“I loved going to clubs,” she told him, “I loved dancing.”

“Loved… past tense?”

“It’s a little weird for me now. I’ve never gone as ‘me’ before,” she said as she twisted her long hair in her hands, “ugh, it’s hard to explain. I mean, I loved going, but I was always in character, you know? I was either the Goth girl, or a scene kid, or a hippie or whatever. Going out as just Alex makes me feel so exposed. Though I know I need to get out there. Plus, I’m super self-conscious about my dancing now. Guys always told me I was a great dancer, but sometimes I’m not so sure.”

“Guys complimenting a hot girl in the hopes of getting close to her? Poppycock, never happens. That would call the integrity of the whole game into disrepute. I’m sure you leave blood on the dance floor after any of those spontaneous dance battles I hear tend to break out in the North side at any given moment.”

“Whatever,” Alex laughed.

“That Northerners are strange is the idea I’m trying to convey here.”

“Yeah, I got that. Thank you.”

Dre spread his arms and shrugged, completely incorrigible. “So anyway, bust a move. Lemme see what you’re working with here.”

“What?!” Alex screeched, horrified.

“Yeah, this is perfect,” Dre said as he got to his feet and approached Alex. “You need to loosen up a little,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and jiggling her a little while he wiggled along with her, making her laugh, “plus, I’m an impartial judge to critique your dance moves because I’ve watched ‘Save the Last Dance’ and maybe three of the ‘Step up’ movies. So yeah,” he said with a toss of his locks, “well qualified.”

“Yeah, no.”

“You have no problems dancing in a packed club, but you’re gonna choke in front of one dude. I’m your weed dealer, which is like being your doctor. There is no shame or judgement here.”

“That is a terrible analogy and club dancing is different; there is diffusion of potential mortification,” she pointed out. “Plus… I think I might dance like a white girl,” she added softly.

Dre raised an eyebrow, “and this would be a problem if your name was Erykah Badu, but seeing as you’re Alexis Alden of the Chicago North side Aldens, no one will hold your glaring whiteness against you,” he promised, but she remained bashful and unconvinced. He took out his phone and soon had a song blaring from it. “For real though, I think it’s ridiculous that people worry about dancing well and all that. You just need to listen to the music and your body and nothing but that; fuck everybody else. Plus, you’re gorgeous, so you’re the last person who should worry about this. You can dropkick dudes in the club and you’ll still be the best thing that’s happened to them.” He started clapping his hands in time to the music, “let’s warm up; just clap it out.”

Alex giggled and looked around. Her entire being felt plenty warmed up as is and she was sure it was quite obvious on her beet-red face. Still, Dre was already clapping away and after double and triple checking that they were alone, she hesitantly started clapping with him, all the while completely unable to keep a straight face to match Dre’s studious one.

“Now rock with me,” Dre instructed, rocking away in time to the music, “and stop looking around for people; goddamn girl!”

Before long, she was being instructed to “walk it out,” while Dre engaged in a series of increasingly ridiculous dances, clearly intent on showing off that he wasn’t afraid of looking silly. She couldn’t stop laughing and despite feeling like the biggest dork, she found herself relaxing enough to start bouncing around on her own. All was light and happiness until the song changed to an even more upbeat temp and Dre abandoned her in her amateurism with astonishing speed.

“Wait, wait, wait! What are you doing?! How are you going to leave kindergarten to jump straight to post grad?!” she protested as he literally and figuratively danced in circles around her.

“Ain’t nobody sweating you, woman; just dance!” he told her and was thrilled when she finally threw caution to the wind and resumed dancing. That is until some of her moves gave him pause. “What are you doing?”

“The Running Man!” she yelled breathlessly. It was amazingly terrible and unlike anything Dre had ever seen before. “I’m using my hot girl license—no fucks to give!”

“Okay, I might have spoken without having all the necessary information—”

“The Worm now!” she howled, endlessly delighting in his amused horror. Before she could launch into the Cabbage Patch, he grabbed her around the middle and slowed her down into an improvised waltz.

“Well that was an education,” Dre said.

“What, the hot girl license doesn’t cover all of that?” she said teasingly.

“Hey, I stand by what I said. Hot girl or not, you do whatever the fuck you want,” he said as he twirled her slowly, “but, um, maybe don’t burn through all your good will in one go. You want to ration that shit out a little bit,” he told her. “But all kidding aside, you should get back out there; do the debutante thing and introduce the world to the quote/unquote 'real' you.”

“Because the real me is the best me?” she asked, tongue in cheek, only to nearly choke on his response.

“Well I don’t know if it’s the best you,” he said before taking in her squeak and gobsmacked look. “What? I’ve never met the other yous. Scene kid Alex might have been a hoot. But you should get back out there, because for one thing, there’s nothing about you—no version of you—that should ever be hidden away. Do the world a favour. Plus, you really need to relax and stop worrying about unfolding Greek tragedies, so you need to find something that makes you feel good and do the hell out of that—”

She cut him off with a kiss. She braced her hands against his chest, leaned up on tiptoes and softly pressed her lips against his as they both went still and quiet. At length, she pulled away, but kept hold of his shirt while she looked up shyly at him.

“You talk a lot sometimes,” she told him, flushed and breathless, and he smiled down broadly at her.

“Yeah, I do,” he conceded before dipping his head and pulling her against him.

* * *

Ian hadn’t heard much of anything from his best friend for close to an entire day. When she finally did call to check in, she had _news_. A few hours later, he showed up at her door, cake dish in hand.

“You baked me a cake?” she said and accepted the card he wordlessly thrust at her. “‘Congrats on the sex;’ you are an absolute shitstain.”

“It’s a vanilla pound cake with a creamy glaze,” he said with a completely straight face as he handed her the covered cake dish. “Don’t worry, I swirled some chocolate inside.”

“God.”

He stepped around her to enter her apartment. “Obviously, you’re going to want me to be a selfless and supportive friend and listen to all your nasty, nasty details, but you have to understand, I’m somewhat conflicted about this,” he said, dumping his knapsack and shedding his jacket.

“Understandable,” she sang out as she headed into the kitchen.

“Clearly I’m going to have to process a few things first. I mean why, Alex; of all the Rastafarian drug lords in all the Southside…”

“You should be happy about this though. Not only have you proven beyond all doubt that I’m a flaming hypocrite, in no position to ever criticise your love again, but I’d pretty much run interference between him and Mickey. You can stop hating Dre now!”

“But don’t you see this is more insidious?” Ian hissed lowly, “he’s going after everyone I love and care about,” he said before he was hit with a small epiphany. “Hang on a sec,” he murmured and whipped out his phone.

“What are you doing now, idiot?”

“Warning my asshole family,” he said as he fired off a group text to his siblings. “If a tattooed, Rastafarian drug dealer tries to sleep with you, don’t do anything until I vet him first. There’s one out to destroy me!” he told his family. The responses were incredibly swift. “Lip says he’ll try… Fiona just sent a ton of question marks, which probably means I might be getting a phone call later. Debbie’s emojis make no sense and Carl… ‘If you’re reading this, it’s already too late.’ Goddamit, Carl!”

Alex burst out laughing. “Got to Carl already, huh?” She handed Ian a large slab of the cake and all but skipped to her bedroom.

“Your man works in mysterious ways apparently.” He grabbed his knapsack and set everything down on her bed. “Okay, there’s just one thing I have to know,” he said as he sat across from her on the bed and rifled through his pack. “Does this now look familiar?” he said as he waved aloft the largest black dildo in the world.

Alex nearly fainted. “Holy shit! That’s the monster?! I can’t fucking— _THAT_?!”

“I take it that’s a no?”

“Jesus Christ, no! Am I not here, alive and whole? Do I appear rent in twain to you? Seriously, what the fuck?! Is that what a lightsaber looks like after it goes to the dark side?”

“Lightsabers don’t change when they—I don’t have enough time in the world to explain everything wrong with that question. Not Dre’s dick then; got it.”

“I thought you burned that.”

“I tried to; it wouldn’t burn, like Joan of Arc’s heart. You want it?” he said, jabbing it at her like an Olympic standard javelin.

“No, thank you. I don’t want it coming to life in the middle of the night and choking me to death. Can you imagine the headlines? My mother’s face would be priceless, sure, but that’s really no way to go.”

“Dicks just fly at your face all the time, huh?” Ian tutted.

Alex nodded sombrely, “I didn’t want to say anything, but it’s becoming a real problem. How did you deal with it?”

“Oh I didn’t really do much; just narrowed my focus to one dick,” he said dryly, “really way easier on the sinuses. I can’t recommend it enough.”

“I’ll try that though; I’ll try that,” she said before erupting into laughter. Ian wasn’t far behind.

When they quieted, Ian smiled softly at his friend. “Good?” he asked her. Alex’s response was to squeal, cover her face and collapse dramatically into Ian’s lap. “Shit,” Ian laughed, “looks like I’m going to have to bake him a cake.”

* * *

While Ian had been called to Alex’s apartment to hear the good news, back at the pool house, Mickey had been summoned to Sal’s office to receive his own word. Mickey could only pray that it was something he could get behind. Sal was at his desk, brandy snifter in hand, apparently hard at work thinking about something—about his grand plan, perhaps. Just what that plan was, Mickey had yet to find out.

“You wanted to see me?”

Sal wasted no time on preamble. “The people I was with these past few weeks, they took things from me,” Sal began. He looked dishevelled and out of sorts, even more uncomfortable in his skin than ever before. Mickey wondered how many illicit substances were coursing through Sal’s veins as they spoke. Sal wiped his hand over his damp forehead and through his thinning hair as he continued. “I want those things retrieved—”

“Sal, you know they hocked all that shit already.”

“If retrieval isn’t possible, then you’ll just have to make them pay, won’t you? I want them found,” Sal grunted and got to his feet. I want them to understand who they crossed.”

Mickey shook his head and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “They’re a couple of fucking dope fiends, though, just two nobodies. They aren’t even worth the time and energy, Sal; we have more important shit to focus on right n—”

“Don’t you fucking tell me what’s important!” Sal roared, bearing down on Mickey so suddenly, the latter scrambled backwards to avoid being mowed down. Mickey was backed against the wall, but instead of lashing out as Mickey feared he would, Sal grabbed his neck instead and drew Mickey close. The liquored sourness of Sal’s breath washed over Mickey and made his eyes burn. The Sal who took such pains to always look and smell his absolute best had yet to return fully. Sal wagged a threatening finger in Mickey’s face. “Those pieces of shit stole from me; from me! You think I’m going to let that disrespect slide? You find them; you fucking teach them who I am!” Sal snarled, “I want you to go full Wonderland on these fuckers. You hear me?!”

“I hear you; I hear you,” Mickey soothed and gently extricated himself from Sal’s iron grip. “Wonderland… I got it.”

“You find them,” Sal mumbled and wandered back to his chair to refill his snifter. “You let them know who Sal Boerio still is.”

* * *

Later that evening when Ian returned home, he found the Milkovich siblings littered about the kitchen, looking more formal and subdued than he had seen them in ages. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Mickey who informed him that Sal had conscripted Jaime and had gone off to do only god knows what. Sal might have been absent, but the group had yet to relax completely. Ian approached his boyfriend, who sat perched on the dining room table, quietly sipping his beer.

“Alex and Dre have started hooking up,” Ian informed Mickey.

“Oh, okay, a toast to the happy couple,” Mickey shrugged and took a sip of his beer.

“She was telling me some stuff and she said something in particular that had me wondering,” Ian murmured, “so I wanted to ask you something. It’s not a big deal or anything, you can be honest… just curious.”

Tony, who was behind Ian at the kitchen island, had heard this particular opening from his wife many a time before. He shook his head frantically at Mickey, “no, it’s a trap!” he mouthed as best he could. When Ian turned to look at him, he feigned deep interest in a newspaper.

“So Alex was going on and on about what an amazing dancer Dre is and all that noise,” Ian continued, “and I kinda wanted to know, who do you think is a better dancer: me or Dre?”

There was a sudden flurry of activity as the remaining Milkoviches all realized they had other places to be and more pressing things to do. They scattered to the wind, mumbling urgently and incoherently, with the exception of Joey, who was so engrossed in a newly rediscovered game, that he simply hid behind the nearest curtain. Tony shuffled backwards out of the kitchen mouthing “it’s a trap!” the entire way, though bloody lot of good it did Mickey, who was now left alone. Mickey scratched nervously at the back of his neck.

“Well, I mean, that’s not really just a black and white question; no pun intended,” Mickey started off hesitantly, “I mean there are things to consider like genre and setting and alcohol consumption…” Mickey started sputtering a bit as Ian crossed his arms and slowly narrowed his eyes, “I mean what defines good dancing really?” he asked just before Ian rolled his eyes and walked off. “I mean there’s genetics and culture. I—I bet you could stomp the shit out of him in Riverdance!” Mickey called after him, but all that was left was silence, with the exception of sound effects of Joey’s videogame.

“Fatality,” Joey whispered.

“There aren’t fucking fatalities in Crash Bandicoot, Colin, but there will be one if you don’t get out from behind that fucking curtain!” Mickey warned his brother. Joey was saved from yet another untimely death by Mickey’s phone going off.

“Found them,” the voice on the other end of the line said and Mickey could only sigh.

* * *

“Sid and Nancy” weren’t that hard to find. As it would turn out, a couple of punk-themed drug addicts, newly flush with cash, weren’t exactly the most subtle people in the world. They didn’t even move that far from the hideout they had held with Sal, but had simply relocated to another drug den a few blocks over, and were blowing through the money from pawning Sal’s things with astonishing speed. Mickey, Jaime and Tony sat on the partiers for a while, watching the building and the people coming and going out of it. Next to Mickey in the front passenger seat of the truck, Jaime was humming “Let it go,” for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“Seriously?” Mickey asked tiredly.

“It’s stuck in my fucking head, alright?! What do you want me to do about it? It’s everywhere: PTA meetings, play dates, birthday parties—” Jaime complained to his brother as Mickey checked his watch and snapped his fingers at Tony to start the proceedings. “The song is called ‘Let it go,’ right? Yet no one seems to be able to! Has ever a song been more ironically named?”

“Ironic,” Tony grunted as he reached down to open one of the truck’s secret compartments to pull out supplies. He handed Mickey a mask, a pair of gloves and his sawn-off shot gun.

“Huh?” Jaime said.

Tony started handing Jaime his own weapons. “You said ‘has ever a song been more ironically named?’ I’m saying yeah there has been; the song ‘Ironic,’ so named for all the ironic shit that’s in it.”

Jaime mulled that over while he and his brothers tugged on their gloves and ski masks. “But then, a song called ‘Ironic’ that’s filled with ironic shit isn’t ironically titled then, is it? It’s appropriately titled; nothing ironic about naming an ironic song ‘Ironic.’ It’s what it says on the tin.”

Mickey checked and loaded his shot gun while he added his two cents. “From what I heard, nothing in that song is actually ironic, like it’s all just coincidences and mishaps and shit, but nothing actually ironic. If that’s the case, it would be ironic to call that song ‘Ironic,’ so Tony’s not wrong.”

They all climbed out of the truck and made their way to the rundown apartment building, cloaked somewhat by the nightfall while black clad on a poorly lit street. The building was unsecured and they simply walked inside and headed towards the old elevator.

“What is irony anyway?” Jaime asked.

“Like opposite, right?” Mickey ventured, “like the last thing you’d expect?” he said and the elevator doors opened on three confused young men as they mulled over their conversation. “Fuck it,” Mickey snorted as they gingerly stepped inside, “we’ll let Ian sort it out when we get home.”

The brothers murmured their agreement. Jaime shook his head, “you see this is why I’m going to pledge my life to keeping Jaynie off the pole and in school… JJ too.”

“JJ?” Tony laughed.

“Fuck, boys get on poles too,” Jaime answered.

“Shit, I’ve been known to climb a few myself,” Mickey said dryly and the three brothers cracked up as the doors closed.

They sobered as the elevator slowly and creakily made its way up the floors. Tony flexed his neck, all the while adjusting and readjusting his grip on the long, heavy, lead pipe in his grasp. Jaime glanced over at Mickey. “How are we doing this?”

“Sal wants us to go full Wonderland,” Mickey murmured and his brothers didn’t miss the lack of resolve in his voice. They exchanged a look over his head before looking at him again.

“Are we going full Wonderland?”

“I don’t know yet,” Mickey answered.

“Mick—”

“I don’t know yet, alright?!” Mickey snapped as the doors shuddered open, “let’s see how it plays.”

A group of heavily armed, masked men coming menacingly up the passageway was not a rare sight in the building. The few residents loitering about the passageway quickly melted away into their apartments, battened down the hatches behind them and braced for the chaos to come. The brothers could hear the music pounding through the door and the muffled raucousness inside. Mickey nodded to Tony and stepped back. His brother charged the door, exploding through it like an enraged rhino. Then there was bedlam.

Mickey was close behind Tony and brought the chaos and frantic scrambling to an abrupt halt with a thundering shotgun blast. Everyone froze and he climbed up onto the low table, stepping on and kicking off the abundance of paraphernalia that were on top of it. He kept watch while his brothers went through the rooms, herding everyone—six in all—into a huddle on the dirty couch. “Nancy” went off like a siren, screaming and wailing to the heavens.

“Shut the fuck up!” Mickey yelled at her and she squeaked to a halt as she stared at him wide-eyed. Mickey addressed the wretched group. “Money, jewellery, anything worth anything needs to be on the table in front of me right now!”

“You’re robbing us?” one of them asked incredulously.

Mickey rolled his eyes and indicated to his brothers to toss the place while he kept his gun on the revellers. Of course, there was nothing to be found. All of Sal’s things had been converted to drugs and introduced into the bloodstreams of the bedraggled group before them. Mickey had known this was how it would turn out, but he had been holding onto foolish hope that he could have retrieved something with which to placate Sal. Now he was here, dealing with a bunch of strung out, unpredictable addicts, not one of whom was worth the trouble this mess could bring. Mickey hesitated as he stared them down, struggling with what to do until Tony looked back at him quizzically.

“Teach these fools; don’t hurt the girl,” he said at length, and Tony, without a lick of hesitation, selected his first target, raised his pipe and went to work. Screams soon rent the air once again, but they weren’t screaming for long. It wasn’t full Wonderland, but it would have to do.

* * *

It had been proven to Mickey time and time again that no matter how well things might be going for him, it only takes seconds for it to all turn to shit. Less than ninety-six hours before, he had been happy and smitten and totally buying into the notion that maybe there was a life beyond the usual, dreary muck of his existence. Then Sal had come home and the shit started raining down.

“What the fuck did you do?” Jason hissed at him over the phone. Obviously that was the last thing anyone would want to hear from a contact in the police department. Then again, Detective Jason Burrows tended to be the bearer of ill tidings more often than not.

“What?”

“I’m guessing you’ve got a couple of days before they’re serving an arrest warrant on your ass, and it’s a doozy too,” Jason said, “Assault and Battery with a deadly weapon, illegal possession of a firearm by a felon, unlawful use of a weapon by a felon, burglary, and the list goes on; they are not playing with you at all.”

“What the fuck?!” Mickey yelled and quickly left the car he was working on to exit the garage.

“There’s a lovely young lady down here, rainbow coloured hair, strung out to the high heavens and just piling all the dirt on you. Says you and a couple giant motherfuckers broke in, robbed then beat the absolute shit out of her friends.”

“They snitched?!” Mickey was genuinely flabbergasted, “she never even saw my fucking face!”

“Maybe your lawyer will be glad to hear that. She sure as fuck knew your voice though—picked you out of a photo array—and with your rap sheet and being out on parole? Get your house in order, baby, because they’re coming for you.”

* * *

Mickey frantically paced the back office of Sandrini’s, trying—and failing—not to lose his shit. Jason had promised him a heads up in regards to the execution of the warrant, which appeared to be sailing through the channels in record time. He was going to be arrested, no two ways about it. The only good thing was that they didn’t seem interested in his brothers yet; waiting for him to roll on them, perhaps. Mickey tried to slow his brain down to pull himself together and get his game face on for his most immediate challenge.

“Hey,” Ian said softly, locking the door behind him after he stepped into the office. “I got your text; everything okay?”

Mickey nodded and flashed a quick, reassuring smile. They hadn’t had a chance to be alone together since Sal came back. “I just wanted to see you and there’s no one here, so…”

Ian smiled as he relaxed. With Sal’s sudden return, he didn’t know when things would go suddenly sideways.  He and Mickey needed to figure something out yesterday, because there was no way in hell Ian could go back to the stolen touches, held breaths and forever walking on eggshells while Sal continued to plough through and lay waste to their lives. He reached for Mickey, who pulled back a little.

“Wait, I need to tell you something first,” Mickey said. He saw Ian tense and the apprehension immediately cloud the green eyes, and Mickey’s already weak resolve regarding honesty crumbled, “I need to go on a run for a couple of weeks maybe.”

“What?”

“Yeah, it’s just some things I have to take care of. Sometimes it takes a while.”

“Two weeks?!”

“There about, maybe more, maybe less…”

Ian looked concerned and uncomfortable, “is this dangerous?”

Mickey skirted the question, “I’ve done this run a million times; you don’t have to worry,” Mickey said. Before Ian could press with more questions, Mickey closed the distance between them and reached up to stroke Ian’s face, “it’s not a thing for you to worry about. I’ll be back before you even notice.”

“Oh, did you leave already?”

Mickey laughed and tugged Ian down to press their foreheads together. “Come on, don’t bust my balls over this. It’s just… It’s just business. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Mickey sounded so tired, Ian found himself relenting despite his desire to rail against the separation. “You’ll miss me though?”

“Jesus, I don’t even want to think about it,” Mickey said softly, with a disconcerting note of sincerity that resonated deeply in Ian.

“Same rules apply though,” Ian said suddenly in an attempt to lighten the weirdly funereal vibe between them.

“Shit, really?! It’s two fucking weeks!”

“You can’t keep your hands out of your pants for two weeks? Same rules apply until you come back,” Ian said firmly before pulling Mickey close again, “but I’ll make it worth your while when you get back, and I’ll give you something to hold on to until then.”

When Ian pulled his tie and hauled him into a kiss, Mickey didn’t resist at all.

* * *

Jason’s warning call came early in the morning a couple days later. Ian was going to be pissed that he hadn’t said goodbye, but the redhead was fast asleep and partially trapped beneath Sal’s bulk. Mickey quickly and quietly went about getting ready for his arrest. The last time he was arrested, it was a sudden thing, a traffic stop that turned into a drug bust. At least now, he could dress comfortably and appropriately and put his valuables away. A ridiculously expensive, easily traceable watch might survive the property room during incarceration, but a simple gold chain would easily “slip through the cracks.” He regretfully slipped off the chain and hid it in his room.

Before long, he was driving through the Southside, on his way to his official address. When he got there, his brothers were already there hanging about on the porch; Mandy volunteering to stay behind to make sure Ian wasn’t tipped off somehow.

“I can’t believe these fucking bitches snitched,” Tony sneered, “who the fuck listens to bunch a fucking hop-heads? You take your beating and you shut the fuck up. We should’ve gone full Wonderland.”

“You need us to come in?” Jaime asked his youngest brother.

“What the fuck are you coming in for?”  

Jaime shrugged, “with everything going down, it might not be so friendly inside, even with the other wise guys there. We’d have your back.”

“When is it ever friendly on the inside?” Mickey sniffed, “stay with your kids; I can handle my shit. Besides, I need you all out here fixing this mess from the outside. “Find these fuckers and teach them silence is golden.” Mickey went quiet as a series of whistles rang out across the neighbourhood—the police were on their way.

“You sure you don’t want to tell Ian what’s going on?” Jaime asked and Mickey shook his head.

“Nah, he’ll freak. I’m hoping I’ll be out before he realizes anything’s up,” he said and swept a warning finger over all his brothers, “the fucker who says shit to him is dead, you hear me?”

An unmarked Crown Vic flanked by a couple marked Interceptors pulled up before the house. Iggy was amused by the show of force. “Check out his parade,” he laughed, “they must have heard you were a bigger dude, Mickey.”

“Mikhail Milkovich?” the detective asked, staring right at Mickey. “We have a warrant here for your arrest.” She and the rest of her team kept a watchful eye on Mickey’s brothers and their surroundings as she took him in and patted him down. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be used against you in a court of law…” she rattled off the well known song and at the end asked the necessary question, “… Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”

“Fucking bite me,” Mickey sneered, which earned him a hard toss against the hood of the car as he was cuffed. He was soon loaded into the back of the police car with his brothers and some curious onlookers yelling invectives at the arresting officers. In the end, the Milkovich brothers could only look on helplessly as their youngest was carted away on a litany of charges.

As he watched, Tony bit his lower lip so hard he tasted blood. He shook his head at Jaime. “We should have gone full Wonderland.”

At the moment, Jaime was inclined to agree with his brother. He sighed as the last car faded from sight. None of them could afford to linger long; they had a job to do.


	29. 99 Problems

Despite the forewarning, this arrest was the most aggravated Mickey had ever felt. By the time he’d been processed and dumped in an interview room, Mickey was basically clawing at his skin, absently rubbing at the inmate number written on his arm. It didn’t help that no one seemed to be in any particular hurry to deal with him. They left him to stew for a while in the empty room, and by the time the detectives finally made an appearance, Mickey had long reached the end of his patience.

“Fuck off!” he snarled the moment the detective pushed her head inside, “I ain’t saying shit without my lawyer.”

The detective rolled her eyes, but did not argue. She simply turned heel and exited the room. However, a few minutes later, the door opened once again. Mickey was not amused. “What are you, fucking deaf—” his invective stalled at the sight of Agent Fowler—folder in hand—and one of his sidekicks strolling into the room. Mickey clapped his mouth shut and stared stonily ahead at the blank wall. Agent Fowler was undeterred by the lack of a warm welcome.

“Mickleback, how’s it going?!”

Agent Hernandez was careful to keep her face as neutral as possible, but she most heartily concurred with Mickey’s massive eye-roll at Fowler’s chirpy greeting. Mickey remained silent, even as a smiling Fowler took a seat across from him at the narrow table. “Ran ‘a fowl’ of the law again, huh? What did I say about doing that?”

Mickey didn’t know where to look for rescue. This went beyond his Miranda rights; this had to be a violation of the Geneva Convention or something. Hernandez hid her own visceral reaction behind a polite cough while Mickey glared at her senior agent.

“Now don’t get all worked up. I’m not here to question you or anything,” Fowler reassured the young man, “I was in the building, heard you’d been booked and I thought I’d come say hi; keep you company a little bit.”

Mickey believed that the way he believed in Santa. Still he said nothing, though he couldn’t help his curiosity as Fowler opened his folder and started pulling out pictures, laying them out before Mickey. They were surveillance photos, mostly of Sal, from all over the city.

“I gotta say that after all this time Salvatore still knows how to surprise. I mean, between us,” Fowler said and leaned forward conspiratorially, “he’s officially off the reservation now, isn’t he? Gone off the deep end?”

Mickey sniffed loudly and shifted in his chair so he could ignore Fowler even more pointedly. Fowler simply went on laying out more photos, the last few showing Sal heedlessly partying with his now ex-friends.

“I mean this mess over at Cicero… the man has lost his damn mind. I tell you, I’m surprised Fischetti hasn’t sorted him out yet, but then I suppose he has Linda to consider. Still, can’t imagine her good will’s gonna extend to Sal for much longer,” Fowler mused as he set down pictures of Sal and Ian out on dates and getting cosy in public. Mickey’s eyes darted towards the pictures before once again staring blankly at the wall. “Moving your goomar onto your property, honestly. Let me tell you, Agent Hernandez, that is something that is simply not done. Gotta have big balls or a deranged mind, just breaking all the rules like this—running around with young boys, taking drug fuelled holidays in the middle of a shake up. Can’t imagine any of the top boys are too happy with the way Sal’s been running shop. I mean really, what the hell, Mickey?” Fowler asked lightly, only to be met with more silence. “You know what I think? I think this is Sal’s way of going supernova. It’s the death of a star is what this all is. You ever see a star go supernova, Mickey?”

Mickey had seen it, lying on the floor of the planetarium watching whole star systems grow and die while Ian lay warm and solid against him. He swallowed convulsively, but said nothing as Fowler continued.

“A supernova is a spectacle, Mickey. Just watching it on TV, you can’t take your eyes off it. It’s amazing, but make no mistake, what you’re seeing is destruction; it’s a death. And the amount of destructive energy it releases as it dies will shred everything and everyone close enough to it. You get what I’m saying? It would be best to clear the path before it gets to that stage. Something maybe I could help you with.”

Despite his best efforts not to, Mickey was by then giving Fowler his full attention, sucked in as he was by the analogy. That is until Mickey was assaulted by the subtle but malodorous suggestion of cooperating with the authorities. His nose wrinkled and he glared at Fowler disdainfully, making the agent laugh out loud.

“You see that look?” Fowler asked his junior agent while nodding at Mickey, “that’s his ‘I ain’t no rat’ look. He’s been slowly perfecting it over the years.”

“Impressive,” Hernandez said dryly, which earned her a glare of her own. It felt like a small victory and a personal milestone.

“You guys need to stop giving rats a bad rap,” Fowler continued, “rats are smart and industrious, and know when to get the hell off a ship before it sinks beneath the surface. Say what you want about them, but I bet in a million years you’ll never hear about an endangered species of rats; let me tell you,” Fowler snorted before pausing to regard Mickey silently. “Mickey, you need to think about—”

The door opened abruptly and Mickey’s lawyer marched inside. Carol Anderson stopped short and took in the scene, from Mickey’s stony face, to the pictures scattered on the table, to the junior agent wedged unobtrusively in the corner of the room, observing everything. Carol put down her suitcase and clasped her hands together.

“Sweet baby Jesus, please let this be an interrogation of my client after he’s invoked his right to remain silent and retain counsel. It has been too long, Lord, since my last Miranda violation case.” She opened her eyes and took a look around the room again. “Did I make a wrong turn and end up at the FBI? Mickey, have you somehow managed to literally make a federal case out of this?”

Fowler cleared his throat and started gathering up the photos. “Not an interrogation in the least, Ms. Anderson. I was simply shooting the breeze with Mickey while he waited for you.”

“And those are your vacation pictures I’m assuming?” Carol asked, staring pointedly at the surveillance photos Fowler scooped up.

“Conversation pieces,” Fowler replied. “Like I said, I was just saying hello.”

“And now I’m saying goodbye,” Carol said, “tread carefully, Agent Fowler; I’ve been known to make a few federal cases myself out of far less.”

Fowler simply gave her a small salute before looking back at Mickey. The two federal agents exited the room and Hernandez released a small breath. “Jesus, she got here fast.”

Fowler shook his head. “He got tipped off. The cops said he was ready and waiting for them when they went to get him. He called that barracuda the minute he found out.”

Hernandez blinked as she followed her boss’s purposeful stride out of the police station and towards the parking lot. “Tipped off?” she echoed, “you mean he has a police contact?”

“It’s the Mob, Agent Hernandez; they have dozens,” he sighed as he slid into the front passenger seat. When she was settled behind the wheel, Fowler immediately began debriefing and pulled out the photos once again. “So what did we learn?”

“He’s got a half-decent poker face. Not stellar, but serviceable,” she answered, “still, tons of microexpressions. He had quite a few responses to Salvatore, but that’s a given.”

“What wasn’t a given?”

“Very strong reactions to the paramour,” Hernandez said and internally patted herself on the back when Fowler nodded approvingly as he fished out a picture of Sal’s redheaded lover.

“Who is this?”

Hernandez scrambled to answer. “Ian… something Irish. Uh, Gallagher, Ian Gallagher.”

“What do we know?”

“Fairly clean background—stole his brother’s ID to join the army at seventeen, went AWOL but later received a medical discharge owing to his bipolar disorder. Worked as a dancer in Boys Town, which is probably where he met Salvatore, enrolled in Preston, okay grades. Nothing in his record indicates involvement in Mob business or any real criminal deviance…”

“Yet he’s running around with a capo and moving into the house behind the wife,” Fowler chuckled, “not all trouble shows up in the records. Why the strong reactions from Mickey?”

Hernandez tugged on one of her curls as she mused out loud. “Could be some tension there,” she offered, “having the boss’s lover move in on you can’t be the easiest thing to deal with. Maybe Gallagher’s a diva.”

Fowler nodded as he stared down at Ian’s face. They hadn’t paid much attention to the kid. As Hernandez pointed out, Gallagher had seemed fairly clean and uninteresting from an investigator’s perspective. The kid had appeared to be yet just another symptom of Sal’s growing recklessness and declining mental state. Still, Mickey practically swallowed his tongue when he set eyes on the surveillance photos and that had to mean something. Any strong reaction was an indication of a possible “in” with Mickey, and Fowler wasn’t going to leave it unexplored. “Go deeper on him and his connections with the family. Let’s see if we can find out what the issue really is,” Fowler instructed. “Now let’s head back to base.”

* * *

Back in the interrogation room, Mickey’s lawyer had set her briefcase down on the table, taken a seat next to her client and promptly slapped him upside the head.

“Ow, what the fuck?!” Mickey protested.

“Watch your mouth,” Carol said coolly. “I cannot believe you have me here again so soon. I did masterful work getting you that slap on the wrist for the drug charge and not even a year later, you’re handing me a full menu of charges? Are you out of your mind?” She frowned and Mickey sighed heavily. “Alright, what happened?”

“Sal was running around with these two junkies for weeks; just got back a few days ago.”

“That I heard,” Carol said dryly. “Salvatore felt he’d earned himself a holiday, huh?”

“Yeah, only the party ends and the two jackasses take off with everything that wasn’t bolted down. Sal’s all butthurt about it and tells me to go Wonderland on their asses.”

“Obviously you didn’t.”

“Sal was the dumbass here. We have real problems and he wants to declare war on a couple of morons who’re probably gonna be dead in a month anyway? We worked them over pretty good and I figured that was the end of that. We didn’t touch the bitch—” Mickey faltered and quickly amended his words when Carol raised a censorious eyebrow, “—we didn’t touch the girl, but she’s the one that comes yapping anyway.”

“She saw your face?”

“No, no way she did.”

“How did she ID you?”

“Said she knows my voice,” Mickey sighed, “I went over there once trying to get Sal to sober up and come home. Things might have gotten a little heated, I guess. She probably marked my voice from then.”

“Just the one time? She never saw you besides that one time?”

Mickey shook his head emphatically. He watched worriedly as Carol mulled over everything and slowly drummed her fingers on the table. “So what do you think?”

Carol sniffed and leaned back in the chair. “It’s thin; it’s very thin. She sees you once, hears your voice a couple of times and makes a definite ID after an extremely traumatic event? Witness recollection is notoriously unreliable with even the most stable people, never mind with a troubled, young woman such as that; battling addiction and everything. She saw you once, you frightened her, she fixated on you a little perhaps, then when something else bad happened… Really, there are so many ways to rip this to shreds.”

Mickey’s sigh of relief was audible. “So you can get me out of here soon then?” 

Carol sighed and started drumming her fingers on the tabletop again. “This case is shaky at best and the police have to know that. Still, you’ve got priors and a strong, almost undeniable Mob connection. That can gum up the works. Plus it’s not a coincidence Fowler and his latest Nancy Drew were here. Dollars to donuts Fowler’s contact here told him your name had popped in an assault case and he made the rest happen. Getting a warrant rushed through like this on a case this sketchy reeks of federal interference. He either wants to flip you or jam you up if you don’t cooperate.”

“But you said the case is shit!”

“And you’re low hanging fruit. You’re not a hard person to convict even with a weak case. I can guarantee you that they’re out there now trying to shore up the evidence and get as much leverage as they can. They’re going to try and keep you here while they do it,” Carol told him. “Is there anyone who can corroborate her story?”

Mickey frowned, “her boyfriend maybe. He might still be laid up in a hospital somewhere. He’s probably not saying much of anything yet…”

“Corroboration—even from another problematic individual—would make my job that much harder,” Carol said carefully.

“Nobody’s gonna corroborate shit.”

“Try not to sound so menacing tomorrow,” Carol said, “and maybe you should use the time to do some thinking.”

Mickey’s head snapped up so he could pin her with a look. “What the fuck is there to think about?”

“The future, Mikhail… with everything I’m seeing and hearing, it would appear that Salvatore isn’t such a sound investment plan.”

“You saying I should think about snitching? You’re a Mob lawyer!”

Carol rolled her eyes as she stood and picked up her suitcase. “Who said anything about snitching? I’m not encouraging one course of action or another. There is more than one way to win a chess game if one is not short-sighted. Just be ready for tomorrow.”

* * *

Mickey wondered if it was just his imagination, but the number of charges seemed to have almost doubled overnight. He blinked as the assistant district attorney rattled them off and almost missed the judge’s request for his plea.

“Not guilty.”

Carol picked up the thread immediately. “Your honour, this is just the latest instance of the state’s systematic and shameless harassment of my client. These charges are excessive, egregious and are straight out some fever dream concocted by the local police and the FBI.”

“Oh wow,” the judge breathed as he lifted his glasses to rub at his eyes, “conspiracy, collusion and purple prose and it’s not even nine a.m. Are you sure you don’t want to save some of that for the actual trial, Ms. Anderson?”

“I have to get it out now, judge; this case is not getting that far,” Carol said, her voice tinged with regret.

The judge laughed and nodded to the ADA. “What says the people on bail?”

“The people request remand, your honour. The defendant has an extensive criminal history and strong ties to organized crime. These charges carry significant time and we believe him to be a flight risk.”

“My client is a mechanic; he restores classic cars. He’s steadily, gainfully employed and his strong ties are to his family and community. His record consists mostly of youthful indiscretions—,” Carol said, resulting in a significant eyebrow raise and a snort from the judge. She continued smoothly, “—and in all his dealings with the court, he has always been present, punctual and cooperative—”

“Certainly wouldn’t want to jeopardize a stellar record like that now, would we?” the judge said, interrupting Carol’s defence. The judge gave another once over of the documents before him. Carol knew what he would say even as he cleared his throat to say it, but when Mickey heard the word “remanded” his heart dropped like a stone.

“We knew it was a long shot,” Carol sighed, “he had made up his mind about a minute in.”

“I can’t be here,” Mickey said softly and Carol was surprised by the plaintive tone of his voice. “I need to go home. I can’t be here. You have to get me out… please.”

Carol nodded, the slip of Mickey’s usually stoic mask shocking her. In the moment she was reminded of how young he still was. “Alright,” she said, her voice soothing and low as she remained cognizant of the approaching officers. “We’ll both do what we have to and we’ll get you out of here. Just hang in there, alright?”

Mickey nodded wordlessly and let himself be led away as another lawyer and defendant took their place before the judge.

* * *

Not long after his bail hearing, Mickey was officially back in the system, Cook County Jail—general population. So much had happened to him since the last time he was there and yet it felt as if he’d hardly left. He had been hoping he would have been processing out by now and on his way back home to Ian before his boyfriend could be any the wiser. He could kick himself for that dumb optimism, because with a record like his and the charges being levied against him, remand was really the only option. Now all his hopes and plans had been fucked six ways from Sunday and he could only pray that between Carol and his brothers, he’d get out sooner rather than later.

His cellmate was either heavily medicated, a nutcase, or simply hoping he could sleep his way to freedom. Mickey couldn’t have been happier. A troublesome cellmate made his incarceration seem at least three times longer. Being locked up was like continuously threading a needle—finding that delicate balance of not being too cocky to draw someone’s ire, but not looking like a pushover. He didn’t even want to imagine the nightmare of what prison would be like. If any of these charges stuck, that’s just where he would be headed.

He’d never been to prison; his previous sentences all too short to merit a transfer. The idea of it rattled him as much as he hated to admit it. In jail, at least he had some advantages. The guards and some of the inmates knew him, he had made connections and friends, and even though the Milkoviches were pariahs somewhat within the Outfit, his association with the Mob still afforded him some perks and protection. He imagined that in prison, all of that would be shot to hell. Then there was Ian. Ian would try, but Mickey couldn’t see him sticking around if Mickey was locked up for god knows how long. Why the hell would he? Why the hell should he? He would have to try and cut Ian loose just to save them both the heartache. Mickey’s cellmate groaned and stirred in his sleep, momentarily distracting Mickey from his worry and frustration, and saving him from punching the wall.

* * *

Jaime and Tony made their way out to him fairly quickly, and the sight of the two giant morons squishing themselves together on the single seat so they could share the phone to greet him gave Mickey his first smile since he had gotten locked up.

“So how’s it going?” Jaime asked at length.

“He looks good,” Tony interrupted, “doesn’t he look good? That shade of khaki really makes his eyes pop.”

“Have you settled in?” Jaime continued, “made any new friends? Having fun?”

Mickey gave his brothers a half-lidded glare. “Yeah, how could I not, seeing that I’m here at the happiest fucking place on Earth?”

“Well you’re not gonna have a good time with that attitude,” Jaime chastised him, “maybe you just need to get on one of the rides. How about that big, black guy down at the end?”

“Hmm I don’t know, Jay,” Tony tutted, “maybe he needs to be this tall to ride.”

“I’m five-seven,” Mickey defended stoutly, “fuck you, Gigantors one and two. Can you be serious for five minutes?”

“What do you want us to be serious for, huh?” Jaime said. “You gotta get the laughs where you can, while you can. They might be scarce for a while.”

“What’s happening? What did Sal say?”

Tony snorted rudely, “Sal? No one knows what the fuck Sal’s saying. Sal doesn’t know what the fuck Sal’s saying.”

Mickey was nonplussed. “He didn’t give you any messages for me?”

“Messages? I’m not even sure the fucker knows you’re here,” Jaime said, “every other hour he’s tearing the place apart looking for you. We keep trying to tell him what’s going on, but I swear to god, it’s like he just hears that noise the kids hear in _Peanuts_ when the adults talk—just whaa whaa.” 

“What’s the fuck’s he been doing since I’ve been in?! Has he been around to the Boss yet?”

“What’s he been doing? Losing his shit is what he’s been doing. He hasn’t been anywhere he’s supposed to be. He’s sending us out, telling us to find wholesalers for party packs. He wants us to find ‘the source.’ It’s like we’re Lewis and Clarke, except instead of the Louisiana Purchase, it’s… you know.”

Mickey ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. “He needs to go to the Boss with his hat in his fucking hand and buy us some time. He’s got no good will left. He said he was going to fix shit!”

Both Jaime and Tony shrugged ineffectually while Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel the headache bearing down on him. “So just nothing, huh? On anything? He’s just running around out there like a mad dog off a leash and I’m supposed to sit in fucking jail with my thumb up my ass, with no word or instructions or anything? Not even a fucking ‘hang in there’?!”

Tony and Jaime exchanged helpless looks. “Well, not nothing entirely,” Jaime started cautiously, “Uncle Ronnie says hi.”

Mickey took a steadying breath and sighed. “And how’s Uncle Ronnie doing?”

“Alright but pissed off as usual. His neighbour’s dogs are still yapping—keeping him up all night, every night. He says there’s no reasoning with the owner, so he’s gonna take care of it himself.”

“Yeah, he was telling me about that the last time I spoke to him,” Mickey said, “told me the bitch was the main problem—loud as fuck.”

“The thing is, he hears them, but when it comes time to find them… ,” Jaime trailed off significantly, “Uncle Ronnie figures the owner’s got them stashed somewhere in the daytime.”

“That’s frustrating.”

Tony sniffed, “yeah, but don’t even worry about it. These dogs can’t behave—no discipline. They’re gonna step out sooner rather than later. Until then, Uncle Ronnie’s going to keep on them. You know Uncle Ronnie, like a dog with a bone. No pun intended.”

“Oh that pun was fucking intended,” Mickey accused, “don’t be cute.”

The brothers managed a laugh before Jaime brought up another pertinent relative. “So, um, Aunt Ginger’s been asking for you.”

It was a remarkable thing seeing the fear of god work its way into Mickey. He sat up straight in his chair. “Oh? What’d she say?”

“What you’d expect her to say. She hasn’t heard from you in a few days and is wondering where the fuck you are. It’s like you fell off the fucking grid and we’re not the best at covering shit like this.”

“How are you bad at this?! You’re both basically married and you lie all the fucking time!”

“Yeah and we always get caught,” Tony pointed out, “then it’s the whole ‘it’s not what you did, it’s that you lied!’ speech and, dear god, you do not want to go through that shit.”

“Tell her you talked to me and I’m fine. None of you breathe a word of this!”

“Mick, this is unsustainable,” Jaime sighed, “you could be in here a while until we sort shit out and—”

“No one says shit to Aunt Ginger, alright?” Mickey said sternly, “alright… now what else is going on?”

* * *

“Subtle little shits, aren’t they?” Hernandez yawned as they played the recorded conversation between Mickey and his brothers.

“Uncle Ronnie, my ass,” Agent Hendricks snorted in turn, “who do we have sitting on the witnesses?”

“They have a couple plainclothes with them around the clock. Neither the cops nor the witnesses seem too enthused about it.”

Hendricks clicked his tongue, “cops think we’re wasting their time giving them a detail on a case that’s on the fast track to nowhere.”

“The girl’s ID is solid.”

“Maybe, but she sure isn’t,” Hendricks said as he played back the recorded conversation while the two junior agents sorted through surveillance photos. “The boyfriend’s already losing his shit. Though I’d be uncooperative too if I got the shit kicked out of me and couldn’t even rest up in a hospital.”

“The motel room’s nice.”

“Says the girl who doesn’t have to sleep in it with another addict,” Hendricks said dryly, “now who the fuck is Aunt Ginger?”

“Probably a girlfriend? Certainly not the Russian one though, I would think. Still why all that subterfuge and double talk just for a second girlfriend?”

“Because he’s scared shitless of her, obviously,” Hendricks laughed, “and he knows we’re listening and doesn’t want us tracking her down too fast and spilling his secrets.”

“So now we must find her,” Hernandez suggested with a wiggle of her eyebrows.

“Oh we must. I can’t believe Fowler is trusting us to do all the listening and summarizing ourselves.”

“Pfft, he isn’t interested in hearing any of this shit. He knows they’re not going to say anything incriminating other than the obvious. Still, would be nice if we could score a ‘get’ out of this shit assignment,” Hendricks sighed.

“Yeah… you find out anything good on the rent boy?” Hendricks said, holding up a picture of Ian.

“Ugh, nothing more yet. School, work, therapy, pool house; that seems to be his whole routine other than living high off the hog on Sal’s dirty money.”

“Therapy?”

“Bipolar,” Hernandez explained, “off his meds, he’s nuttier than a fruitcake. You should read his incident reports—riveting stuff, very Da Vinci Code.”

Hendricks shook his head as he looked at Ian’s picture once again. “The hot ones are always crazy.”

“Your type?”

“Ten out of ten, would bang. All of my boyfriends have been crazy and I never learn.”

Hernandez laughed out loud, “maybe you should get his number. With the way Salvatore’s going, something tells me Billy Elliot there’s going to be single real soon.”

* * *

It took exactly one day of no contact for Ian to start getting antsy and by day three, it was a marked struggle to keep his anxiety under control. It didn’t help at all that by the time he tamped down his embarrassment and apprehension over being perceived as _that_ kind of boyfriend so he could ask the remaining Milkoviches about Mickey’s wellbeing, that he was confronted with five nearly identical looks of deer caught in the headlights.

“You guys have heard from Mickey, right?” Ian ventured again, his eyes shifting from one Milkovich sibling to the next. Again, no one seemed capable of answering promptly. It was finally Jaime who coughed up something.

“Uh, yeah, like maybe once or twice. It was Mandy that spoke to him, I think. Right, Mandy?”

Her glare would have eviscerated a less robust soul, but she then gave Ian an uncharacteristic, over-bright smile. “Yeah, but it was just once to ask for something. He’s fine, just busy.”

“It’s just that he hasn’t called or texted me or anything since he left. I was getting kind of worried.”

Mandy waved him off and her brothers followed her lead, mumbling vague reassurances. “He’s changing burner phones like every day and the minutes are limited. He has to save them for his contacts.”

“Yeah,” Jaime quickly added, “plus we have to pretty much go off the grid for a lot of these runs. It’s just how it goes.”

Ian finally nodded and backed off, a little creeped out by the unblinking eyes and pasted on smiles of the bunch. The reassurances had only bolstered his worries and two days later, when the house was finally empty, Ian found himself in Mickey’s room, fervently whispering affirmations to himself as he locked the door behind him.

“He’s fine; he’s just on a run,” Ian told himself as he leaned against the door and peered around the room, “if something was wrong, they’d be freaking out. He’s just off the grid for a while. I just need to relax and not let the crazy take hold.”

The affirmations simply bounced off the brick wall of his anxiety as he tapped his fingers against the door. He finally pushed away from the door to circle Mickey’s bed. He stopped before the night table and nervously slid the top drawer open. He was half certain Mickey would materialize next to him and take his head off for violating his privacy. The last thing he wanted to do in these uncertain times was to give Mickey a reason to be pissed at him, but he soldiered on despite the trepidation.

He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. He doubted he was going to find a helpful map with “Mickey is here” highlighting some far away spot in America. He poked around the night table drawers for a while before abandoning them to poke around under the bed. He had a small eureka moment when he spotted what appeared to be a piece of paper wedged under the mattress near the edge. He gingerly worked it free and was shocked to see his own image smirking back at him and flipping him off.

Ian blinked at the picture. He couldn’t tell the last time he’d seen that photo. When the hell had Mickey swiped it from him? Ian smiled down at it, feeling himself relax and warm for a number of reasons. Of course Mickey would find a way to charm him from wherever the hell he was. He replaced the picture and smoothed the bed, all the while wondering if he should just give up, keep talking himself down, and simply wait for Mickey to return. That is until his eyes fell on the closet.

The closet was locked and Ian had to fish the key out from its hiding place under a stack of blankets. When he opened it, Ian found everything in its place, more or less. He eventually went for Mickey’s duffle bag, securely tucked away as ever in the far recesses of the closet. Beneath the sex toys and Mickey’s random assortment of prized possessions, was a black jewellery bag containing Mickey’s watch and the gold chain Ian had given Mickey for his birthday. The alarm bells that had been quietly going off at the back of his head had now escalated to full on shrieking.

Ian carefully put everything back as he’d found them, locked the closet and deposited the key in its hiding place. He then went to Mickey’s chest of drawers where Mickey’s underwear and clothes seemed pretty much unchanged from the last time Ian had put his laundry away. Who the hell goes on a long trip without so much as a change of underwear?

When Mandy came back to the pool house, Ian was waiting for her. “Um, what’s up?” she asked as she grabbed a drink from the fridge.

“Why exactly can’t Mickey contact me while he’s on this run?”

Mandy shrugged, “it’s not that he can’t, it’s just a hassle, you know?” she said, appearing more twitchy and suspect to Ian with each passing moment, “he’s conserving his minutes and I guess he’s just not used to the constant checking in thing.”

“But that’s the thing, he’s gone on runs before and he always calls me. I mean what's so hard about sending me a text or something? Why does he have to go ‘off the grid’ for this?”

“I don’t know,” Mandy said testily, “I’m not in the habit of asking Mickey his business.”

“I just think it’s weird that—”

“Ian!” Mandy snapped, “Jesus Christ, we talked about this, didn’t we? I already told you that this is the life. You just… you either roll with it or you fucking don’t. Mickey’s doing what he has to do and he’ll get back as soon as he can. He’s fine, just give it a rest already,” she said and stomped off to the basement without another word to Ian.

* * *

Giving it a rest was the last thing Ian intended to do. Something was wrong and he was sure of it, and he was determined to figure out what it was. It became abundantly clear that the siblings weren’t going to cooperate willingly, even while they did a piss-poor job of allaying his concerns and fears. Clearly, he was going to have to get to the bottom of the mystery via perhaps some underhanded means.

“The animal kingdom is so fucked up,” Joey told Ian sombrely as he sipped his umpteenth beer, his eyes never leaving the giant TV screen in the basement. “I love watching this shit. Like, did you know it’s the lionesses that do most of the hunting? The lions don’t even show up for shit until after the hunt’s done. They usually just come to eat.”

“Wild,” Ian agreed.

“When they hunt, they try to find like the weakest ones too, you know? The ones that are fucked up, or really old or the babies. It’s messed up,” he slurred before gratefully accepting the fresh bottle of beer Ian handed him.

“You really like this stuff, huh? Are all of you into this or are you the only one that finds animals this fascinating?”

Joey laughed, “Jaynie digs it. She always watches with me. I thought Jaime would freak because it can get pretty graphic, but he’s cool with her watching most of it. He says it’s got important life lessons.”

“Life lessons?”

“He says everyone in the world is either a predator or prey,” Joey yawned, “says it might help her to figure out who’s who.”

Ian snorted softly, “interesting. You know what might be fun then, especially for you and Jaynie I guess? We could head to Lincoln Park one day soon, go to the zoo? I’ll drag Mickey along and we’ll make a day of it.”

“Yeah, that’d be awesome. Gotta wait till Mickey gets out and we’ll take all of the rug rats and—”

“Gets out of where?”

“Huh?”

“You said when Mickey gets out… Gets out of where, Joey?”

Joey flushed and blinked rapidly, his fluster compounded by his tipsiness. “That’s not what I said. I mean, I meant—”

“Joey,” Ian said quietly, slicing through Joey’s drunken rambling, “where’s Mickey?”

* * *

Mickey’s nose wrinkled as he poked at the mystery food on his tray. Once again, he would be depending on his commissary until he got out. Still, trying to identify just what it was they were being served on a daily basis was one way to pass the time. Eventually Mickey grew so engrossed in his science project that he almost missed the gruffly uttered command that came his way.

“Hey, give me your jello.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow and looked up to see an intense young man glaring down at him. It was a kid, white, no way was he more than eighteen, and behind the sneer and bravado, Mickey could see the terror in the brown eyes. The story was fairly easy to read if one knew what to look for. The kid was clean, no tats and apparently unaffiliated with any of the gangs on the inside. The kid must have been trying to stay that way too, because a gang meant protection on one hand, but a whole freaking ton of problems on the other—especially for someone who only had a short stay.

The kid’s latest black eye had only just started to heal and Mickey could see the bruised knuckles and a few more fading injuries dotting the pale skin. The kid was an unaffiliated newbie and was probably getting his ass kicked on the regular—most likely by the same white power gang trying to recruit him into their ranks. He probably saw Mickey and envisioned a way to scramble up the ladder a little without compromising, or some asshole had suggested as much. Except for the tats on his fingers, Mickey also looked clean and seemed to be going it alone, and could easily be mistaken for another greenhorn. Coupled with the fact that Mickey didn’t appear physically imposing, the kid had been lulled into making a critical error.

Mickey clicked his tongue, “I don’t know what kind of fucked up internal GPS you have that led you to me, but you took a wrong turn somewhere. I suggest you recalculate, reroute and get the fuck away from me so life can be a little easier for the both of us.

The kid wasn’t expecting that. He stalled for a bit, staring uncertainly at Mickey before looking helplessly around the noisy, crowded lunch hall. No one was looking, but yet everyone was looking. The play had already been set in motion and there was little either Mickey or the kid could do to stop it now. He looked back at Mickey and appeared to steel himself. A short distance away, a correctional officer watched the interaction with suspicious eyes. The CO seemed to murmur something into his radio and Mickey could only sigh. Now pain would be unavoidable.

“I said give me your Jello!”

Mickey picked up the Jello cup, deliberately peeled back the lid and slowly sucked down the dessert before tossing the empty cup down on the tray. He then looked at the gobsmacked boy enquiringly. “What now, superstar?”

The boy swung, a wildly thrown punch which was more of a flail than anything. It still managed to catch Mickey right in the eye and pain exploded along the side of his face. Still, now that it was established that he was neither the aggressor nor the one to throw the first punch, Mickey rolled with the hit and quickly went on the attack. Mickey came up with his tray, slamming it across the boy’s face and sending bread, juice and the hockey puck of food showering over the table.

The hit with the tray wasn’t so much painful as it was unsteadying, and the kid staggered back with a pained grunt only to get rammed in the stomach with the force of Mickey’s entire body. The kid was stunned, but was soon screaming and flailing violently, which was proving surprisingly effective in keeping Mickey from doing any major damage. As Mickey tried to keep the boy pinned, he could see the black clad Emergency Response Team rushing into hall, screaming at the two fighters to separate and stand down. Neither of them could do that, not with the whole hall hooting and watching and taking notes. In an instant, the ERT was upon them and then came the real pain.

* * *

He wasn’t the aggressor and he didn’t throw the first punch, but that didn’t mean Mickey wasn’t guilty. He should have stopped fighting once he gained the upper hand, the committee had said. He should have stood down when the ERT gave him the order. So while they came down hard on the kid, Mickey hadn’t escaped scot-free either. Several days of administrative segregation—the Hole—loss of privileges such as visitation, his phone calls and commissary. Nothing but twenty-three hours of solitary confinement; plenty of time with nothing to do but think and brood.

When he finally re-emerged, the first thing he did was get in contact with his family, not knowing that the sound of the phone ringing would cause four grown men to jump as they sat around the poker table in the pool house basement.

“You better answer that shit,” Jaime told Joey as the latter stared owlishly at the ringing cell phone. “He gets mad if he has to keep calling.”

Joey cleared his throat and picked up the phone. He accepted the charges and greeted his brother cheerily. “Hey, Mick.”

“Hey,” Mickey grunted, “they finally let me out of the fucking Hole. What did I miss?”

Joey hesitated before answering, opening and closing his mouth wordlessly while his brother waited.

“Hello?”

“Um, Mick, uh, Ian wants you to add his name to your visitors’ list, because he-he wants to come see you.”

The silence at the other end of the line was deafening, but it didn’t stay silent for long. “You… told him?”

“He kind of tricked me,” Joey started miserably and then things got loud.

“You useless piece of fucking tra—”

Joey didn’t hang around to hear the rest. He tossed the phone and beat a hasty retreat to somewhere safely out of earshot. By the time Jaime picked up, he could hear Mickey reassuring a CO that he was calm and under control.

“Mick?”

“I fucking told you—”

“Ay,” Jaime warned him, “don’t raise up at me; I didn’t do shit. Though it doesn’t make sense ripping Joey’s head off either. He was going to find out, Mick. I told you this shit was unsustainable. You knew he was going to find out. No story in the world could cover this.” Jaime could hear Mickey swearing softly to himself over and over as the reality of the situation sank in. “Look, it is what it is, alright? So just add his name to your list, man up, and take that ass-whooping you know you’ve got coming.”

* * *

Mickey’s cellmate watched him curiously as he fussed with his hair and kept swearing at himself. His black eye had faded to the sickly yellow discolouration stage, but there was no way to hide it. Not that he didn’t try. He kept messing with his hair, growing more and more nervous as the time ticked on until the CO finally showed up to tell him he had a visitor.

“Fuck,” was all Mickey could manage.

“Number eight,” the CO told him and Mickey hesitated before heading to the window. He could already see Ian’s long fingers tapping on the tabletop. Shit, he was surprised he couldn’t see the chin. His quibbling earned him a suspicious look from the CO, so Mickey took a breath and moved to the open seat.

“Hey,” he said nervously and watched as the cold fury on Ian’s face gave way to wide eyed alarm as Ian’s eyes latched onto the yellowed bruise. Mickey hastened to reassure him. “Oh this,” he said, pointing to his eye, “nah, it’s nothing. Just re-establishing dominance, you know? You should see the other guy.” He aborted his uneasy laugh when Ian’s face went hard again. “It’s a good thing they put me here,” Mickey continued, “they’re phasing out the face-to-face at some of the newer divisions and putting in the video visits instead. I mean, I guess it’s quieter but it’s not the same. Plus the second your time is up, they just cut the feed… sucks.”

Ian took a look around the visiting room. The air was thick and the noise was remarkably loud and discordant, filled as the room was with chattering men and women, and impatient, uncomfortable, screaming children. A couple windows down, a babbling toddler banged on the thick Plexiglas partition, trying desperately to get to her father who was cooing to her from the other side. Beyond that, a woman was screaming at her husband and crying. The room seemed to be filled with every emotion imaginable and it was impossible not to be affected by it all. It was never easy to communicate in a place where everyone was desperate to be heard and trying to wring every second out of the brief time. Yeah, it was such a good thing they had put Mickey here. When Ian looked back at Mickey, his glare was edged with some despondency.

“It’s just a misunderstanding,” Mickey continued, “all of this. Once things get sorted out, I’ll be home. It’ll be another week or two, tops.”

Despite Mickey’s reassurances, Ian still did nothing but stare. Something inside him had snapped as he had sat at home, carefully filling out the online application with all of his personal information, all for the privilege of seeing his boyfriend stuck behind a screen once a week. It hadn’t helped either that his application had been delayed by Mickey losing his privileges with getting stuck in the Hole and being unable to add him to the visitors’ list any sooner.

Mickey glanced cautiously around him and lowered his voice as much as he could manage. “I’ve been doing what you said,” Mickey almost purred and lightly dragged his knuckles along the base of the partition, “being good and all that.”

It was honestly the most pathetic and infuriating thing Ian had ever seen. Was this jackass really trying to, what, seduce him from fucking jail?! He was seriously sitting there making bedroom eyes when there was no way for Ian to touch him or smell him or even really talk to him, and for only god knows how long. Mickey would never know how much he owed his life to Plexiglas right at that moment.

Ian had yet to say a single word and Mickey was left withering away under the green glare. Finally, something snapped inside Mickey as well and he shook his head slowly as he glared back at Ian. “Seriously, this is all you came here to do? Filled out all that paperwork, drove all the way to the West Side and went through processing just to glare at my fucking face and point your stupid chin at me?” Mickey accused, his tone biting, “you don’t have anything better to do with your time?”

Ian scowled fiercely at the sass and wound up looking so much like an angry, petulant Viking that Mickey almost burst out laughing, except that Ian was now in the process of actually hanging up.

“Are you fucking serious right now? Ian? Ian don’t hang up the ph—” Mickey was gobsmacked at the soft click of the line going dead and the sight of Ian sliding out of the chair. “Ian, I swear to god, if you don’t—” But Mickey was talking to dead air and Ian was quite purposefully storming away.

* * *

“What the fuck was that?!” Agent Hernandez asked, nonplussed, as she and Hendricks replayed the conversation. “He didn’t say anything? Was there a code? What the fuck happened there?!”

They wound up getting the footage of the visit and watched with deep consternation as the two men engaged each other.

“You think Sal’s using him as a messenger?” Hendricks postulated, but Hernandez shook her head.

“Must be, but why would he though? This kid hasn’t had a connection with the business until now. He’s not even fucking saying anything, he’s just… glaring! I thought there was some kind of sign language or something. Do you think he’s blinking in Morse code?”

“Milkovich seems kinda rattled, doesn’t he? He’s pretty much babbling. Why would the boss’s side piece make him this nervous? None of this sounds like any fucking code that makes sense to me,” Hendricks kept musing. He kept watching and listening, as baffled as his fellow agent, until it slowly began to dawn on him. “Oh… oh shit.”

“What?”

“Oh shit! As if Salvatore doesn’t have enough freaking problems!”

Hernandez almost shook the man, “Jesus, what?!”

“Salvatore has a fox in his henhouse.”

Hernandez stared at him blankly, “what?”

“This isn’t business, Hernandez; this is personal—very personal,” Hendricks said gleefully, “they’re fucking.”

“Huh?” Hernandez peered at the screen while Mickey’s one-sided conversation played on in the background, “no, but Fowler said Milkovich has a serious girlfriend; um, Svetlana something Russian. The bottom bitch at that brothel he has.”

“And I’m not disputing that, but those two are definitely fucking,” Hendricks avowed. “And from the look and sound if it, it is pretty goddamned serious.”

Hernandez watched the footage and listened again, now without the block of believing Mickey was exclusively heterosexual. “Oh shit… he’s Aunt Ginger.”

“He’s fucking Aunt Ginger, oh my god!” Hendricks exclaimed and threw his hands up in the air in celebration.

“Let’s call Fowler,” Hernandez squealed excitedly, “because we just got our fucking ‘get.’”


	30. The Sisyphus Stone

Mandy knew that answering Mickey’s calls would be a bit of a minefield after Ian’s visit. Ian hadn’t said much to her about it—in fact, all the Milkoviches were pretty much on his shitlist for the time being—but it could be easily surmised that the visit a few days prior had not gone well. The last thing she wanted was to be stuck in the middle refereeing this mess.

“Hey,” she greeted her brother.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Mickey asked her.

She decided it was safer to simply answer his questions superficially and ignore all subtext. “Nothing much, just hanging out. I was at the Rub and Tug earlier and you wouldn’t believe what—”

“Who’s there?”

“Um, just me,” she lied despite the fact that Ian had just entered the kitchen to grab a bottle of water for his run.

“Is that Mickey?” Ian asked her point-blank, making her cringe. He just had to bust her. “Tell him the ‘stupid chin’ says he can go fuck himself,” he said before leaving Mandy to deal with the fallout.

“What the fuck did he just say?! Does he know I’m in jail over here?” Mickey raged at the end of the line and Mandy sighed and settled in for the ranting.

* * *

It had been a while since Ian had pushed himself this hard. By the time he was forced to stop, he was almost on the verge of collapse. Ian sat on the nearest bench and doubled over, caught between dry-heaving and trying to fight down some air into his starved lungs. Eventually, the lightheaded feeling passed, but he wasn’t able to move just yet, so he sat panting and tried to get his bearings.

 “Goddamn, that’s impressive!” a voice called out to him and Ian looked up to see an older, suited gentleman approaching him. “Man, if I even tried to do ten minutes of what you just did, they’d have to Life Alert my ass. I was starting to wonder who’d run out of gas first, you or my car.”

Ian frowned at the man and looked beyond him to the aforementioned car, where a young, curly-haired woman leaned against it watching their interaction. The suits and sunglasses told Ian all he needed to know.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Ian asked the newcomer, keeping his tone terse and unwelcoming.

“Agent Thaddeus Fowler, FBI. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the man said cheerfully and extended a hand. Ian simply stared at it and Agent Fowler shrugged and dropped his arm, “fair enough, I guess.”

“What’s this supposed to be about?”

Agent Fowler did not mince words, “about a mutual friend of ours: Mickey Milkovich.” The agent almost snorted at the rapid shift in Ian’s countenance, though the young man did what he could to school his features back to blankness. These little boys couldn’t bluff for shit.

“He’s not my friend,” Ian murmured.

“No? I’m sorry, what’s the Facebook status then, ‘in a relationship’ or ‘it’s complicated’?” Fowler asked and watched coolly as Ian’s eyes widened and the apprehension flooded in. “Look, son, let me tell you right now, we rarely ask questions that we don’t already know the answer to, alright? Now I’m not here to blackmail you or make your life harder, I just want your help.”

Ian sighed and glanced around cautiously. They were miles from Sal’s property, but as Ian was finding out, there were always eyes everywhere. “What do you want?”

“Heard you went to see our boy the other day,” Fowler continued, “heard you didn’t have the best time.”

Ian groaned and covered his face with his hands. Why was he so stupid? Of course they had been watching. He had probably ended up giving himself and Mickey away just by showing up there. He was becoming the walking definition of a liability. At this rate it would be a small miracle if Mickey didn’t end up killing him himself.

“I’m guessing it wasn’t a very pleasant experience seeing him there. Between you and me, I don’t believe he belongs there either,” Fowler said, “I think he has a chance at making a real life for himself away from all this mess and I want to help him, but Mickey needs to help me to help him.”

“Mickey’s not a snitch,” Ian said quietly.

Fowler scoffed. “Come on, man, come on! Is that what you’re going with? I know you’re Southside, but you’ve been out for a while now. You’ve seen shit, boy, you’re educated, so act like it. I expect that backwards regimented bullshit from Mickey, because he doesn’t know better yet, but do you really still believe in maintaining that code of silence mess… for everybody?! You think it’s good and honourable to sit back and watch men like Salvatore burn shit down around them while not giving a shit about anyone else? You think Mickey owes him that; owes him his life and his future?”

“Mickey doesn’t owe him shit!” Ian flared before quickly calming himself down. “He doesn’t owe Sal anything. I want him out too.”

“Then help me extract him.”

“Mickey doesn’t listen to me,” Ian said miserably, “not when it comes to Sal. It’s like Mickey thinks he’s god or something.”

Fowler regarded Ian for a moment. “You’re probably going to mind me asking, but I’ll ask anyway. How serious are the two of you; screwing around?” Fowler suggested. “You love him?” When Ian looked up, Fowler smiled softly, “you feel he loves you back?” He asked and Ian hesitated but then nodded. “Then he’ll listen to you. He’s stubborn, but you get in his ear and you stay there.” Fowler fished out his card and held it out to Ian, “you talk to him and then you get him to come talk to me.”

Ian stared at the card, but didn’t immediately move to accept it. “Mickey talks about you sometimes. He says you’ve been trying to turn him for a while and how you’re always saying you want to help him and Mandy. He doesn’t really think you want to help him,” Ian said, looking up into Agent Fowler’s eyes, “he thinks you probably do like him, but at the end of the day he’s just a means to an end for you. If you want to help him so badly, why not just help him? Why does he have to flip when you know how hard that’s going to be for him?”

“Because I can’t just use all the resources it would take to help him without having anything to show for it,” Fowler replied. “It has to be justified. And at the end of the day, I also can’t force my help on someone who isn’t ready for it. So are you going to help make him ready?”

Ian stared at the proffered card for a while longer before taking it and quickly shoving it into the pocket of his sweatpants. Fowler nodded gratefully and stepped back. “You call me if you need anything. We will make this work somehow.”

Ian wasn’t so sure. He could already feel the card burning a hole in his pocket. On so many levels and in so many ways it felt as if he had made a deal with the devil.  It felt like a betrayal.

* * *

By the time he made it to work, not only was Ian feeling worse about everything, but his level of paranoia had spiked exponentially. He felt like he had eyes on him everywhere he went, at all times and it was a near impossible feeling to shake. Alex rubbed his back sympathetically as he settled down into restocking the shelves.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” Alex comforted lamely, only for Ian to snort in response.

“How do you figure? First I fuck up the one visit I get for the week by being too pissed to even think straight and now I feel like I’m in cahoots with the fucking Feds. I should have shut that shit down immediately. Mickey would lose his shit at me if he ever found out—any self-respecting Southsider would, to be honest. Do not tell Dre!” he stressed emphatically.

“I won’t, though now I’m going to feel guilty about taking his head off about him not telling me about Mickey,” she said. “But don’t be so hard on yourself about the Feds thing. They approached you and you didn’t even say anything, all you did was take a card and it’s not like you made any promises. You didn’t betray anyone or dishonour anything,” she reassured him. “In fact, maybe you should put some thought into what the agent said.”

“Alex—”

“No, seriously, Ian; I think he’s right about a lot of things. Maybe viewing this through a Southside lens isn’t the best thing. Mickey needs a way out and, really, this is the only way I can see it happening. It would be a new life… a chance to start over and start cleanly, right?”

“The Witness Protection Program? Even if I could convince Mickey to talk to the Feds, what would that even mean for us? We’re not married, we’re not officially anything,” Ian pointed out, “he leaves, would I even get to go with him? Then what happens to the rest of them?”

Alex had no answers for him, but she did have a question of her own. “If he did get the chance to go and wanted to take it,” she started softly, “but you couldn’t go, would you let him?”

“I would have to, wouldn’t I?” Ian said miserably, “how could I tell him to stay in this shit just for me? How is any of this supposed to work?”

Alex stared down at her shoes. She had lost count of the hours she’d spent trying to find Ian’s happy ending in the this mess and so far she’d come up short. She couldn’t imagine what Ian must be feeling, worse with Mickey’s arrest compounding his worries and fears.

“Hey, you want to hang out with me tonight? We can have a ‘so bad it’s good’ movie marathon!”

Ian gave his friend a small smile, “I thought you were going out with Mandy tonight.”

“Eh, we can reschedule, it’s no big deal.”

Ian straightened up and gave her a quick hug, “thanks, but I’ll be fine. Go have a good time.”

“Are you sure?” she asked uncertainly.

“Allie, I’m fine,” he assured her. “Just have fun and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Not bloody likely,” Alex scoffed. “How are you managing with Salvatore being back?”

“This is probably going to shock you, but I do believe our great love affair is over,” Ian shrugged as he finished shelving toilet paper.

“No shit?”

Ian grunted his affirmation. “I’m pretty sure he forgets I’m there until he’s looking directly at me, then he’s confused for a second, then he’s happy to see me. I’m like a nice painting he bought and hung up but then forgot he had, or maybe comfortable furniture you just don’t think about. To be fair, he’s kind of like that with everyone now and seems weirdly consumed by some vague ‘grand plan’ nonsense. Anyway, to be on the safe side, I switched out his Viagra with my leftover Lamotrigine.”

Alex did a double take. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah, you know how we used to make fun of how they look like bootleg boner pills? Well turns out Sal can’t really tell the difference either,” Ian continued nonchalantly, “if Mickey’s not getting any, Sal sure as  fuck won’t be getting any either.”

“But… but what does that do to someone who doesn’t need it? Is that like poisoning him?”

“One can only hope, but it doesn’t seem to be doing anything except keeping him soft—no rashes or anything. With all the shit he takes, those pills probably aren’t even a blip on his radar. All I know is I’m taking no chances with him suddenly deciding he wants to climb all over me.”

Alex gave her friend a worried look. “Just keep on your toes, okay? Just because he’s distracted now doesn’t have to mean he’s done with you forever.”

Ian simply nodded as they shifted down to the feminine products section.

* * *

“I can’t believe you did this. Why the fuck couldn’t you keep your mouth shut, Sarah?”

Eugene Balfour felt he had good reason to be irritable. He had gotten the love of Christ kicked and beaten out of him not long ago. He had suffered a broken arm, broken ribs, a shattered jaw, and more contusions than he could remember—probably because of the severe head injuries he had also suffered. He’d been taking more and more beatings lately and there was nothing amusing about it. The best thing to come out of the whole violent fiasco was the pain medication he had had on tap at the hospital, but that had ended abruptly when the cops had come in and hustled him out for his own protection they claimed. Sarah was going to be the fucking death of him. What kind of ignorant jackass snitches to the cops? On the fucking Mob, no less!

“I didn’t know he was connected,” Sarah had wailed as she huddled on the polka dot sheets of their cheap motel room. “He said he owned some garages! He messed you guys up so bad, Gene.”

They were both terrible messes, locked in a dumb, cramped motel room for days on end, jonesing hard for a fix while local law enforcement camped outside all day. Eugene, in particular, was in a bad way. He had never hurt this badly before between his extensive injuries and his forced detox. He had been horrified when he heard his girlfriend had pointed the finger at Sal’s goons when she blabbed about the beatings. He had been tempted to bolt and just dump Sarah so she could deal with it, but in the end, he couldn’t leave her. So there he stood, the most reluctant witness there ever was.

He wasn’t even sure if the same guy who had tried to bash his head in was the same guy who later nearly took his head off with a sawn off shot gun. Sarah swore up and down it was him, and she did have a freakish thing about recognising voices. Plus it made sense that Sal would come after them for taking his shit. That was good enough for him. He was marked anyway with Sarah testifying and the cops had them by the balls. He figured he might as well just go with it, help point the fingers and get whatever he could out of it.

He peeped through the curtains and scratched at his skin compulsively. Night had fallen and he might have caught a break. His favourite dealer was in the area once again and had everything he and Sarah needed. As time passed, he’d gotten to know a little about the police details assigned to them and used the knowledge to escape for an hour or so to get supplies. He expected the two bored, functioning alcoholics parked outside to pass out soon. Sure enough, the next time he peeked out, all movement in the car had ceased.

“I’ll be back soon,” he whispered to Sarah and limped outside.

Minutes later, he was in a dark alleyway with warm euphoria racing through his veins. His pain subsided and the worries and anxiety that had piled up since his last hit melted away. He smiled goofily at nothing, even as his mind already turned to acquiring his next hit. That was his whole life now, just chasing this feeling despite its steadily diminishing returns. He contemplated Sarah’s share that he had tucked away in his pocket, but was distracted by a large figure lurching into the alley.

“Hey, man, hey… you gotta light?”

Eugene frowned up at the newcomer who was interrupting his buzz, but he struggled to his feet as he fumbled for his lighter. He needed to get back to the motel room before the cops were any the wiser or Sarah started losing her shit. The man accepted the lighter thankfully and lit up his cigarette, the brief burst of flame illuminating his dark, curly hair and deep-set features.

“Thanks, man,” the newcomer huffed and tossed back his lighter. Eugene wanted to move off, but between the effects of the drugs and the way the man was staring at him so intently, Eugene found it weirdly hard to take a step. The newcomer eventually started talking again. “You look pretty good for a dude that took the type of beating you did, huh?”

Eugene stared back, momentarily nonplussed by the odd observation. It took a moment for the alarm to start kicking in.

“My brother’s like you. He heals so fucking fast. Gets his ass beat on Monday, by Wednesday the fucker’s pretty again. Makes me really envious,” Jaime Milkovich continued, even as Eugene stirred and started to stumble off, “He’s locked up now though. You probably know him because I heard you’ve got a whole lot to say about him.”

“No,” Eugene whispered hoarsely. He tried his best to turn his broken shamble into a run as he moved towards the other end of the alleyway. The adrenaline just wouldn’t build and Jaime’s steady gait kept the large man right on his heels. “It wasn’t my idea. I’m not—I won’t say anything.” The pain was surging back as he limped towards the corner, hopefully to freedom. Maybe Jaime only wanted to scare him into silence. “I won’t say anything. Tell Sal… I won’t say anything!”

“Fucking right you won’t.”

A new voice greeted Eugene just as he rounded the corner to possible escape. The voice belonged to another hulking figure that blocked his path just before punching him hard in the chest. Eugene reflexively rubbed the sore spot and appeared only mildly surprised at the amount of blood flowing through his fingers. Eugene “Sid” Balfour was dead before he even hit the ground.

“What did Dre’s boy say?” Tony said to his brother as he carefully stepped over the prone body to avoid getting blood on his shoes.

“It’s the motel about three blocks from here. Two cops watching them.”

“Don’t you drop that here,” Tony warned Jaime as the latter took a last drag of the cigarette. “So what are we doing?”

“It’s too risky going to her with the pigs there. Let’s see how it plays with just him.”

* * *

Gene wasn’t just gone, he was dead. For a while, the cops and feds had tried to play it as if he’d slipped out and taken off on his own, saying he probably couldn’t handle all the pressure. It would have been laughable to Sarah if it hadn’t been so disgusting. There had been no way to keep it under wraps for long. Gene was dead, her soul mate was gone and Sal had killed him. She would be dead too if she went through with any of this, that much was now clear. None of it had seemed real until she realized that her man wasn’t coming back.

The last place she wanted or needed to be right then was at the police station. She was so shaky; none of the stuff she’d ingested earlier had done anything to calm her nerves. She pulled fretfully at her hair while the Latina fed tried to talk her down. The agent seemed to go through every mode: from comforting and cajoling to stern and vaguely threatening. Obviously they were desperate to keep her on board and in line, but Gene was gone—she had killed him—and if she kept on being stupid, she’d be gone too.

“You know what happened to him,” Agent Hernandez had finally said, “you need to do this for him.”

 _“This bitch is crazy,”_ Sarah thought to herself. Gene might or might not have been the great love of her life, but she still loved her own ass way more. She looked away from Agent Hernandez’s earnest intensity and thought she’d lost it completely when she saw Hillary Clinton striding into the room. It wasn’t Hillary Clinton, it would turn out, but another similar looking woman with a withering gaze, who was clad in a sharp, navy blue suit. She was a lawyer, Sarah would learn, and would be present for the identification parade.

“She looks well,” Carol remarked to the ADA, taking Sarah in with a cool lift of her brow.

“Having your co-witness stabbed to death in an alley can really take it out of a person,” Jim Lazlo, Assistant District Attorney, said dryly.

“Oh,” she hummed, sounding mildly surprised. She then gave the ADA an assessing look. “You sound a little accusatory there, Jim. Let me go on record and say that my client has a rock solid alibi for… whenever the heck that happened.”

“I’m sure the Illinois Department of Corrections is happy to oblige,” he responded. “Shall we begin?”

“Let me also go on record once again to log my objection to this as well,” Carol argued as she walked into the room for the police line-up, “your witness has already admitted that she might have seen my client on a prior occasion and heard his voice. I believe this parade exposes him to undue bias,” she paused as Agent Hernandez and a police detective ushered the twitchy young woman into the room, “also, with the Feds,” Carol said with exasperation. “Really?”

“Ms. Brighton is a part of one of our ongoing investigations,” Hernandez explained as she moved towards the back of the room, “I’m just here to see to her safety and wellbeing.”

“Of course you are, dear,” Carol said before staring pointedly at Jim, “this is part of my objection.”

The police detective turned to the young woman to give her instructions. “You’re going to view a group of people one at a time. We’re going to show you the whole group in random order and the person who committed the crime may or may not be present in the line up.”

The detective continued his instructions and Sarah hastily assured him that she understood and signed the necessary form. The room fell silent as the first young man filed into the small, lit room on the other side of the one way mirror. He turned to face the mirror with his identification number held to his chest.

“Number one, loudly read what’s on your card,” an officer instructed the young man.

“Shut the fuck up!” the man shouted to the window and Sarah quickly shook her head, dismissing number one as the suspect.

The process repeated until it got to number four, when Mickey Milkovich entered the room and stood defiantly before the window. Sarah struggled to keep her breathing even as it seemed as if Mickey’s eyes were boring right into her.

“He… they can’t see me, right?” she asked breathlessly and the supervising officer assured her that all each man could see was his own reflection.

“Number four, loudly read what’s on your card.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey hissed and he seemed to loom out at her from across the mirror.

Sarah swallowed audibly before shaking her head again. “No, I don’t know… it’s not him,” she said, her words coming out in a tumbled rush. At the rear of the room, Agent Hernandez shifted as if about to speak but was instantly frozen in place by Carol pinning her with a warning look. Carol raised a finger and wagged it slowly and Hernandez glowered back at her before shrinking back against the wall.

All six men were presented with Sarah waving each of them off. The supervising officer offered to have the men parade again but Sarah was ready to bolt. “It wasn’t any of them!” she croaked, feeling on the edge of hysteria. “He’s not there! I’m not even—I’m not even sure who I saw from before. I was fucked up; I don’t really remember.”

Hernandez stepped forward, “Sarah, just calm down. You don’t have to be scared or intimidated by him—”

“That’s strike one, agent,” Carol chimed in, “and believe me, this is not a three strike game.”

“He’s not there!” Sarah repeated emphatically, “I don’t know what I heard. I don’t want to be here! They’re making me do this!” she cried and pointed a shaking, accusatory finger at a floored Hernandez. Sarah really was at the point of hysteria by then and the supervisor concluded the line-up and quickly took the young girl out of the room to try and calm her down.

Carol released a long, low whistle. “Well, that was quite the display,” she said to the ADA, while Hernandez instinctively hung behind to see how it would play out between the lawyers.

“He intimidated her,” Hernandez accused.

“How? By obediently saying the very phrase you told him to say?” Carol laughed, “oh darling, with a reach like that, you really should be playing for the WNBA instead of slumming it down here,” she said before heading over to the ADA and resting her briefcase on the window ledge to retrieve some documents. “This is a little awkward; I honestly didn’t expect it to fall apart quite so spectacularly,” she mused out loud. “Tell you what, Jim, I won’t bother hitting you with the motion to suppress this ridiculous line up, but I still have to give you my motion to dismiss.” She dropped the paperwork into the ADA’s hand. “Drop the case and let’s put an end to this ridiculous fishing expedition now or I won’t hesitate to bring a cannon to kill this mosquito, never mind Confucius.” She turned to give a cool nod to the fuming agent, “until next time, agent,” she crowed before marching out of the room.

The ADA gave Hernandez an apologetic shrug. “We’re going to have to cut him loose.”

“She’s scared, they just killed her boyfriend and she’ll say whatever to get away,” Hernandez argued, “but he can’t walk on this. He’s guilty; she had a visceral reaction to him walking into the room for god’s sake!”

“And you have nothing to hold him,” the ADA pointed out patiently. “All you had was her witness testimony and she just torpedoed that. She’s clearly not going to cooperate with law enforcement moving forward.”

“So we slap her with a material witness warrant and—”

“Then get accused of victimizing a young woman who has already been victimized and still get nothing out of it. Agent Hernandez, you’ve got nothing. I’m not contending his guilt, but you have no evidence and no chance against the steam roller that is Carol Anderson,” he countered. He sighed and softened a bit, “this is your first time at the rodeo with the Mob and it’s always a crushing disappointment to see them skip away, but it’s going to happen often until we get them on something concrete. Now I’ve been more than accommodating to Agent Fowler’s little… fishing expedition, but I have to end it here,” he said, waving Carol’s paperwork. “Chin up, agent, maybe you’ll get them next time.”

* * *

It was Tony who was waiting when Mickey got off the bus. His brother flashed him a huge grin and got out of the car to greet him. Mickey was glad to see him, but he had a more pressing concern.

“It’s just you?”

“You see anyone else here?” Tony answered and then smiled at his little brother comfortingly, “if it makes you feel any better ‘Mandy’ has been harassing me on my phone non-stop to see if I picked you up yet and if anything’s gone wrong, so you know he’s waiting and anticipating at least.” He shrugged and mussed Mickey’s hair when the latter sighed. “Hey, you want some Mickey D’s?”

“I’m not four years old,” Mickey grumbled sullenly beneath his breath, remembering a time when Tony would cheer him up by convincing him that an entire burger franchise was named and made just for him. Finding out the truth had been Mickey’s equivalent of finding out there was no tooth fairy.

“Yeah, you want some Mickey D’s,” Tony cajoled as he steered Mickey towards the car and, of course, Tony was right.

* * *

Tony dropped him off at the pool house and took off, and Mandy barrelled into him the moment he stepped through the front door. “Assface!” she squealed happily, “Jesus, am I glad to see you!”

He hugged his sister tightly but still scoffed at her exuberant welcome. “It’s barely been a month; what’s your malfunction?”

“You’re back now and I don’t have to referee this bullshit anymore. Our national crisis is at an end.”

Mickey snorted rudely. “Where is he?”

“Downstairs pretending to play pool with Iggy,” she told him.

“Who else is here?”

“It’s just us. Jaime has a play group and he’s on snack duty, and Joey’s hiding from you until he’s sure you won’t kill him. Hey are those my fries?” she said and dived for the bag of fast food, but Mickey played keep away until he got all his answers.

“Where’s Sal?”

“He’s off tilting at windmills or chasing waterfalls; it gets hard to differentiate sometimes. Now that you’re back, you can figure that shit out for yourself too,” she huffed and finally grabbed the bag and went to plop back down on the couch so she could stuff her face while her brother made his way to the basement. “You sure you don’t want to take a nap first?” she yelled after him, “you might need your strength.” She only laughed when her brother flipped her off.

* * *

Iggy knew he should have put some money on this game. By the time they were ten minutes in, Ian was so antsy and distracted, Iggy could have been dropping in the balls in the pockets by hand and Ian wouldn’t have noticed.

“Gonna take your turn?” he asked.

“Nah, I’m good, go ahead,” Ian mumbled, his eyes glued to the basement door. He could have sworn he’d heard Mickey and Mandy talking up there. Then again, he had sworn he had heard them the other four times too. Still, he kept his eyes on the door and held his breath.

Iggy shrugged and tossed another ball into a pocket. He should have bet the whole damn farm. He and Ian both looked up when the basement door opened and Mickey slowly began making his way down. Unbothered by the tension that had fallen with a thud, Iggy met Mickey at the bottom of the staircase.

“You can tell Joey he can show his face,” Mickey told Iggy after they had hugged.

“Yeah, you’re not just saying that so you can lure him out into the open and kick his ass, right? He said to make sure to ask you that.”

“It’s a chance he’s going to have to take.”

Iggy snorted, stuck his toothpick back in his mouth and headed back to the pool table to heedlessly continue his demolition of Ian who had suddenly regained a burning interest in the game. Mickey stood there quietly for a moment while Ian idly wondered where half the balls had gone. Mickey finally clicked his tongue and shifted his shoulders impatiently.

“I’m out,” he said bluntly and Ian glanced up.

“So I noticed,” Ian replied, “is stating the obvious a skill they teach in jail now?”

Mickey sucked in his lower lip to chew on it and Iggy’s loud cough almost had him losing his pool cue. Mickey cleared his throat and tried again, all the while trying to temper his temper. “I figured we could talk… got a minute? Think you could tear yourself away from balls of fury here?”

Ian put away his pool cue and edged by Mickey to make his way up the stairs. Mickey nodded to his brother and then went after Ian.

Mandy looked on inquisitively as Ian emerged and wordlessly made his way upstairs. A moment later, Mickey also appeared with Iggy trailing behind him. She squeaked but it was too late, Iggy had already smelt the fries and spotted the bag, and was now making a beeline for her.

“I’m going to go talk to him,” Mickey told his battling siblings. “Do me a favour and—”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll holler,” Mandy huffed and fended off her brother with a handful of fries. “Good luck, you’ll need it.”

Iggy garbled his agreement and Mickey could only sigh and head upstairs.

* * *

When Mickey entered his bedroom, Ian was standing before the closet, arms crossed, chin out and already glaring up a storm. Mickey locked the door and turned to face him. As usual, Mickey figured that a good offence would be the best defence.

“So I’m in jail and you tell me to go fuck myself?”

Ian was momentarily taken aback and blinked wordlessly before he erupted, “are you fucking kidding me?! You’re going to be mad at me?! You lied! About jail! Who the fuck lies about going to jail?!”

“Every ex-con who wants to work for a living,” Mickey answered before offering a sincere answer. “You made a whole thing out of me not getting arrested or dying, I thought I’d be back out before you noticed. I was trying not to freak you out!”

“Oh, well sure, because I would handle you disappearing off the face of the Earth so much fucking better,” Ian sneered, “thank you for the thoughtful consideration of my mental health.”

“I don’t know what move to make half the fucking time when it comes to you!” Mickey shot back, “I don’t know which is the worse option; I don’t know what’s going to set you off. How are you going to ask me to never get arrested?! You ask for impossible shit!”

“Yeah, fuck me and my impossible standards for wanting a boyfriend who isn’t under the constant threat of incarceration. There I go setting the bar too high again,” Ian scoffed, “your reasoning is stupid and you’re full of shit. I honestly don’t know what is worse: that you lied about being in jail, or that you almost got locked up for years over something this stupid!”

“I didn’t have a choice—”

“You always have a fucking choice!” Ian roared, “Sal isn’t God; he’s a demented, old man who’s going up in flames and you’re just willingly following to hell!”

“I’m just willingly following him to—ugh my god,” Mickey groaned out loud, “how do you do this? How are you able to exist in this world while ignoring its reality?” Mickey wondered, “You know, I am genuinely curious about what my job is in this magical land you’ve created where I apparently don’t have the job I actually have. I mean, am I just a mechanic? Do I lecture at your college? Do I spend my days knitting cute sweaters for stupid, fucking dogs, Ian? What do I do? Because I’ll tell you what I do in this world; I, as you once so quaintly put it, am a henchman and a disposable one at that. Henchmen don’t have choices; they do as they’re told or they die, because a disobedient henchman is like a knife that can’t cut—of no fucking use to anybody!”

“This is not who you are,” Ian argued, “that is not what you are! Why can’t I make you see that? You just accept it and take all the shit that just rains down with it.”

Mickey shook his head slowly, “you see this is what I’m talking about. You just keep switching back and forth between the here and now and this world in your head where all the rules are different. What do you really expect me to do? What is your solution here?” Mickey asked him, and the questions seemed exasperated, genuine and desperate all at once. Ian stared back silently because he still had no real answer for him. Mickey rubbed his face tiredly, “I told you, didn’t I?” he said quietly at first, “back before this shit started, even when it was still new… back when I was reading your palm and chasing you through the snow and all that stupid shit.”

Ian straightened up and frowned at Mickey’s dire tone. “Told me what?”

Mickey stared him in the eye. “That you needed to go find one of those pretty, preppy douchebags that has a last name for a first name and a 401k and dreams of running for office, because this,” Mickey said while pointing to himself and Ian, “is something that just can’t happen…”

Ian could already see where this was heading. “Don’t say it,” he warned his boyfriend, but Mickey had fully warmed to his point.

“This,” he continued, “is unsustainable—”

“Mickey, I swear to god, if you say—”

Mickey was slowly getting in his face. “What this is, Ian, is a fucking mistake!”

Despite his tendency for impossible dreams and unreasonable standards, Mickey could say at least one thing for Ian; he had a better right cross than half the guys Mickey had fought in jail. He swore loudly as the blow sent him staggering back and before he could wonder if his freshly healed eye was going to get blacked up again, Ian was on him.

* * *

Downstairs, Mandy and Iggy heard the steadily rising volume of the argument give way to a heavy thud, which was undoubtedly the sound of a body or two violently hitting the floor. Mandy picked up the remote and slowly upped the volume while Iggy shifted uncertainly.

“Uh, don’t you think we should—?”

“Nope,” Mandy said and kept upping the volume until the thuds and yelling were drowned out by sitcom shenanigans.

Iggy sighed forlornly and rested his head on his sister’s shoulder. “It’s always roughest on the kids when the parents fight, isn’t it?”

“God, why are you all such idiots?”

* * *

It took Mickey a moment to realize that he was getting wailed on pretty hard with one of his pillows. Ian was sitting on him, ranting away and working out his frustrations with a down-stuffed weapon. Despite that, Mickey had zero chances of getting a word in edgewise or escaping from the onslaught.

“This is not a fucking mistake!” Ian thundered as he kept smacking Mickey with the pillow. “Just because you can’t get your shit together!” he yelled, punctuating each word with a thwack. “I swear to god, you’re going to—are you laughing?!” Ian paused to stare thunderstruck at his laughing idiot of a boyfriend. “Are you seriously fucking laughing right now?!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Mickey sputtered as he giggled at the absurdity of it all, “it’s just that I just got out of jail and now you’re trying to kill me with a pillow.”

“Take this seriously!”

“You’re trying to shove a pillow up my nose; taking this seriously is kind of hard!”

That wasn’t the only thing that was kind of hard, Ian noticed and he looked down at Mickey with still growing disbelief. “Seriously?! I’m in the middle of trying to kill you!”

“You’re sitting on top of me,” Mickey pointed out, “and I’ve been locked up for a month.  You told me I couldn’t get myself off!”

“I also told you not to get locked up,” Ian contended, “didn’t follow that order, did you?”

Mickey sighed and rubbed at his face again. “I’m sorry, alright?” he said softly, “I was trying to get through this without fucking things up or freaking you out… I just didn’t want you to see that,” Mickey said, his voice dropping even lower. Ian still held the pillow aloft, apparently wavering on whether or not to softly bash Mickey’s head in. “Alright, you want to kill me and that’s fine, I guess I kind of have it coming. Can you just tug on my dick a few times while you do it at least?”

The audacity of it all would have floored Ian weren’t he already there. “How are you even real?”

“Please?” Mickey asked plaintively and wriggled a little beneath Ian. He took a brazen chance and stroked Ian’s thighs before sliding his hands up to Ian’s hips. “I know you’re mad, but it’s been a month. You must have missed me too a little bit, right?”

Ian lowered the pillow and looked to the heavens for some kind of help or direction. Mickey Milkovich had to have been specially created just to push all his buttons and drive him screaming off the deep end. He finally looked back down at Mickey who was looking up at him expectantly. “This isn’t over,” Ian told him as he yanked his shirt over his head. “I’ll mostly likely kill you afterwards. In fact, I might kill you during.”

Mickey was already undoing Ian’s jeans. “And I’m fine with that,” Mickey assured him as he ran his tongue along his lower lip and unleashed that unholy, playful grin that could easily entice Ian to murder him just as much as it made Ian want to fuck him. Ian leaned down and crashed his lips against Mickey’s, still wondering if there was a way he could split the difference.

Mickey kissed back just as fiercely and fisted his hands into Ian’s hair and hooked a leg around Ian’s thigh. He let out a strangled groan when Ian ground down hard against him and fell back panting when Ian broke the kiss to yank Mickey’s T-shirt. His breaths came in short, harsh pants as Ian tilted his head back to bite at his throat before Ian shifted downwards to lick at his nipple and graze it with his teeth. Mickey moaned and mumbled softly to himself as he stroked Ian’s hair, encouraging Ian to keep moving lower. When Ian dragged down his pants and underwear and took him into his mouth, Mickey thought he might die after all.

Ian sucked on him greedily, gripping Mickey’s bare thigh with one hand and stroking the base of Mickey’s cock with the other while he lapped at its head. He released Mickey’s thigh to rake his free hand down Mickey’s chest and torso, watching hawkishly as Mickey’s face and body contorted in pleasure. He relaxed and let Mickey thrust into his mouth a few times before he pulled back abruptly; knowing Mickey was on the verge of orgasm. Mickey whined in protest.

“Don’t come until I let you,” Ian instructed and tugged off Mickey’s shoes and socks so he could remove the bunched up jeans and underwear from around his ankles. Mickey wanted to protest, but he knew better than to buck against the rules right then. Instead, when Ian had finished stripping him, he got to his knees to find Ian’s lips again and massage Ian’s hard cock through his unzipped jeans.

Ian grabbed Mickey’s bare ass with both hands and pulled Mickey flush against him so he could squeeze and knead, lift and tease until Mickey was groaning unabashedly into his mouth. “Face the bed,” he told Mickey and the latter readily complied. Mickey’s fingers were already curling into his sheets in anticipation as Ian rummaged in the drawer behind him. Soon Ian was behind him and pushing against his back to have Mickey slump over the bed.  “You swear you were good?” Ian asked softly as he guided slicked fingers over Mickey’s testes, up over his perineum to ghost over Mickey’s opening.

“So good,” Mickey sighed as Ian’s fingers pressed inside him.

Ian rubbed his free hand through Mickey’s hair, caressing his face and keeping pressed into the bed as his fingers scissored deep into Mickey, loosening and making him ready. Mickey was slowly yanking the sheets off the bed as he wrapped his fists in them and used them to stifle his wanton whimpers. Ian didn’t keep him waiting. It had been a long, tortuous month for him too. Even at the worst points, the longest they had been apart was for a couple of weeks. The forced celibacy, coupled with his worry and anger made Ian’s own release perilously close.

He nudged Mickey’s knees further apart before slowly sinking in and burying his face into the crook of Mickey’s neck. They were still for a moment with only the sounds of their harsh breathing filling the room. “So are you gonna move or what?” Mickey hazarded and Ian answered by nipping his shoulder and pressing Mickey’s back down into the bed as he started to thrust.

As Ian’s controlled, measured strokes gave way to a faster, more desperate pace and Mickey eagerly encouraged it, squeezing himself around Ian’s cock and brokenly babbling his boyfriend’s name. As his orgasm built towards its crescendo, Mickey instinctively reached down to touch himself. Ian didn’t bother ordering him to stop. Instead, Ian hauled Mickey upright until Mickey’s head was lolling back against his shoulder. He kept a hand around Mickey’s throat, stroking his thumb over the racing pulse point at the juncture of Mickey’s neck, as he stroked Mickey’s cock with the same frantic tempo as his thrusts.

Ian was whispering hotly into his ear—sexy words, romantic things, maybe commands or harsh reprimands; Mickey didn’t know and he was too far gone to make sense of anything but the impending explosion brewing inside of him. He tried to suppress it and cling to the feeling for a while longer, but it was impossible. He came in Ian’s grasp, almost sobbing with the intensity of it. Ian came with, muffling his own shouts into Mickey’s neck until they were both slumped over, replete, against the bed.

Ian struggled to catch his breath as he rested his head between Mickey’s shoulder blades; all the fight drained out of him. He sighed and ghosted his lips over Mickey’s sweaty skin—they made each other so stupid sometimes. “Good?” he whispered thickly as he nuzzled Mickey’s ear and neck and stroked his hip. Mickey wasn’t going to answer him any time soon, passed out cold, as he was, face down in the crumple of sheets.

“Mick?” Ian asked again and nudged his boyfriend a little harder. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?!” Ian said and Mickey just went on sleeping. Ian sighed, “I’m not leaving you here on the floor—as much as you deserve it.”

Still Mickey didn’t even stir. Ian gave up trying to rouse him and briefly left him to grab clean up supplies. Next, he set about prying the sheets out of Mickey’s sleeping death grip—which was either a survival adaptation from having siblings or being in jail—before remaking the bed. He then hoisted Mickey into it, without as much as a grunt from the latter, and collapsed in the bed next to him.

* * *

Ian couldn’t relax enough to sleep deeply. Clearly Mickey was in recovery mode from the tense, sleepless atmosphere of jail now that he felt safe again, but Ian couldn’t unwind. He dozed off and slept fitfully, jolting awake out of the fear that Mickey hadn’t returned or that Sal would be looming over them with murder in his eyes. The last time Ian awoke was because of a low, grumbling noise emanating from the man next to him. Apparently Mickey was starving, just not enough to wake up. Ian scoffed softly and then rolled out of bed.

Mandy watched him curiously as he descended the stairs and turned down the TV’s blaring volume.  “Still standing, huh? You didn’t kill my brother did you? Because then I’d have to go all _Kill Bill_ on you.”

“He’s sleeping, Mountain Snake, relax.”

Her eyes lit up when she noted he was heading for the kitchen. “Are you going to make something? Good, because I’m starving,” she yawned and trailed after him.

“You Milkoviches are bottomless pits,” Ian observed, “where’s Iggy?”

“Courtesy call from the village bicycle,” she sniffed. “Still, can’t say I don’t understand the appeal. She does this thing with her little finger where she shoves it up your ass right at a crucial moment. It’s pretty inspired.”

“That works for you?” Ian smiled as he dumped containers from the fridge onto the counter.

Mandy shrugged, “I guess it’s all about timing,” she said before looking at Ian more closely. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s just… I’ve been trying to explain some things and figure stuff out. But it’s hard with Mickey when it comes to Sal, you know? It’s like fighting against the wind. I just… I need him to choose me at the end of all this.”

“Yeah, not about you,” Mandy said coolly, surprising Ian.

“Um, what?”

“It’s not that I’m not empathetic, I so am. I’ve been where you are with my brothers lots of times,” she told him. “It’s not about him wanting to choose you. You think it’s a hard choice, deciding between the dude who sucks his dick and makes him happy and the dude who wails on him and gives him stress ulcers? If it was simply about picking one, you or Sal, he’d pick you, every day, hands down.”

“But then…”

“You don’t think I’ve wanted to grab my brothers and get out of here? I’m a girl… with lady parts! Salvatore Boerio could not give less of a shit about me. You know what it’s like to be a seven year old girl who went from living with a dad who gave her a little too much attention to one that would get surprised every time he tripped over her? Not fun, and for a long time, all I wanted was for us to get the fuck out of here and be somewhere else. Once in a while, I’d bring up maybe moving on and striking out on our own, you know? But they couldn’t. They literally couldn’t,” Mandy said with a slow shake of her head. “It’s not about Mickey choosing you. I guess it’s about Mickey choosing Mickey, you know? It’s about all of us choosing ourselves—we just don’t know how.”

“I know you kind of get it,” Mandy continued, “you had a piece of shit dad too, but Frank’s a different breed from Sal. You don’t get the number Sal did on them. He’d get in their skin; he broke them down. At one point, Joey was scared to take a shit without Sal giving him the okay. It was honestly kind of amazing, because I don’t know how someone just naturally does that. I swear to god, if Sal was a little better looking and a little less of a loser, he could be another Jim Jones or Charles Manson or something. Instead of Jonestown or the Manson family, he got my brothers,” Mandy sighed. “Eventually, we all just got used to this and quit trying to imagine a life outside the hole. Sal kind of let go of the older boys, but he doubled down on Mickey. Mickey was the one who knows how to make him feel good, you know, feel powerful, like he’s worth a damn. You’ve got to admit, after you’ve spent as long as Sal has feeling like hot garbage, who’d want to let go of a good thing like that?”

Ian didn’t answer as he went on preparing the food. Who indeed?

* * *

It took several hard jabs to wake Mickey up. “Eat this,” Ian commanded, “you’re about to start self-cannibalizing.”

Mickey sat up, completely zombified, ate his food and went right back to sleep without even as much as a peep. Ian hazarded joining him again after he’d cleaned up, and managed to drift off for a while. When he woke up a short time later, Mickey was still knocked out, but had snuggled closer at some point and gripped Ian’s arm as he slept.

“You’re not cute,” Ian accused softly and rolled onto his side so he could watch Mickey’s eyebrows wake up long before the rest of him did.

“Are you being creepy again?” Mickey asked thickly as he finally came to life.

“A little bit.”

Mickey flashed him a tired smile and Ian felt himself melt a little. Everything was unfair; Ian had missed the idiot so much. As if reading his thoughts, Mickey scooted even closer, “missed ya.”

“You did?” Ian asked and reached over to squeeze Mickey’s ass.

“Fuck yeah,” Mickey murmured.

“I really missed you too. It was a month,” Ian said, “not so bad, I guess. Would you have been okay to keep on missing me?” Ian asked and Mickey looked up at him, momentarily confused, “I mean, were you willing to miss me for a year, or five years, or however long they might have given you?”

“Ian…”

“Mickey, I can’t have this fight any more,” Ian said quietly, “I just can’t. I don’t want to pressure you or overwhelm you or anything, because I know I’m a lot. I feel like all kinds of trash about this sometimes, because I know I’m forcing you to deal with so much shit too fast, but I have to try, right?” Ian said and trailed his hand up Mickey’s body to stroke his face. “The thing is, I know you’re trying to figure it out and find a way to be with me and keep Sal happy because you’re still holding on to hope for him, but you can’t. I know you don’t want to acknowledge that yet, but you just can’t split the difference and make it work for all of us. Just because you love me a different way from how you love Sal, doesn’t mean it’s not a competition here. On one hand, what I want from you and what I want for you is the polar opposite of what Sal wants, but on the other hand, we both need the same thing from you and there’s no way for you to give it to both of us, you know?  There’s not enough of you to go around,” Ian said with a small, wry smile. “You’re either mine or you’re his, but you can’t be both,” Ian maintained, “so I’m asking you to think about it. I’m not saying to choose right now or tomorrow or anything like that, but you have to make that choice, because you’re right; this isn’t sustainable.”

Mickey stared back wordlessly, unable to think of anything to say. His eyes searched Ian’s face as his boyfriend kept caressing his face. He tried to summon an answer of some kind, but Ian kissed him softly instead and moved to get off the bed.

“He usually pops in around now,” Ian explained as he got dressed. “I don’t want to push our luck too much. Besides, I better go start your ‘welcome home’ dinner before all your brothers get here,” he kneeled into the bed and kissed Mickey again, “just… think about this a little, okay? I’ll wait a while.”

Ian took a breath after he left Mickey’s room and closed the door behind him. It was a hell of a gamble to make, but the way Ian saw it, all that was left at this point was to up the imperative. He just hoped he wouldn’t wind up the loser.


	31. The Devil in the Details

By the time Mickey emerged the following morning, the gold chain was back in place much to Ian’s delight. Then again so was Mickey’s watch, which Ian had privately decided had become another symbol of Sal’s continued domination of Mickey’s life. Ian tried to shake the thought and focus on the positives instead, like how it had been a whole month since he’d last seen Mickey in a tight, black tank top. Ian beamed sunnily at him in greeting.

“Hey,” Mickey said softly and smiled back shyly when Ian hooked a finger in his belt and tugged him close.

“Hey,” Ian replied and they both ignored Mandy’s disgusted snort as she ate her breakfast.

“You’re heading to work already? I thought you had the afternoon shift,” Mickey asked.

“Yeah, it’s summer break, so I’ve picked up all the extra shifts I can,” Ian informed him. “In another couple months, Financial Aid’s going to come knocking for my share of the money, so I gotta save up. I need to get another job actually. You need any help down at any of your garages?”

Mickey was amused by the idea. “What would you even do?”

“I know a little bit about cars; not a lot, but a little bit. I could just hang posing all sweaty and greasy with my shirt off until one of you needs me to hand you a tool… or my dick. That’s totally a job you guys have, right? I saw that in a porno once.”

Mickey burst out laughing. “The offer is very tempting and you’d be very qualified, but the garages are too hot right now. I don’t need you being anywhere near all that.”

“How can they be too hot and I’m not even there yet?” Ian asked sceptically before raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh god, I’m trying to eat here,” Mandy protested. “You could always earn some extra cash down at the Rub and Tug… as security!” she quickly added before Mickey could leap across the table and throttle her. “Jesus, I meant as security. Jaime and Tony always catch hell when they put in time down there; you’d be doing them a favour.”

Mickey was not having that either. “No, no Rub and Tug,” he told his sister and his boyfriend.  He turned to Ian, “no businesses connected with us, alright? Just stick with the supermarket and don’t try to burn yourself out doing a million jobs, and yes I hear the mild hypocrisy of that, shut up” Mickey said. “Don’t worry about your tuition; it’ll get paid.”

Ian wasn’t entirely sure how to take that reassurance, but he and Mickey would have to discuss it later. He checked his watch and sighed. “Look, I gotta go.”

“Hey, hey, wait… I was thinking after your last shift, I could pick you up and we could go for a ride,” Mickey got his answer before he even finished the thought. Ian’s face lit up immediately. “Maybe we could crash somewhere for a bit. You think he’d notice if you got back really late?”

“I don’t give a shit,” Ian said before kissing Mickey quickly and slapping his ass on the way out the kitchen, “and neither should you!”

Mickey said nothing as he watched Ian go and then went to get his share of the breakfast Mandy had made. He had barely settled down with his plate and started chatting with his sister when Sal finally barged into the pool house with a bleary-eyed Iggy trailing behind him. Sal muttered to himself as he stood in the living room and tried to get his bearings. He detected movement in the kitchen and headed straight for whoever was there. He ground to a halt when he spotted Mickey.

“Where the fuck have you been?!” he demanded.

Mickey sucked his teeth. “Jail…”

Sal seemed genuinely surprised to hear that. He stared, clueless, at Mickey as the latter sat nonchalantly eating his breakfast and Mandy continued to act as if he didn’t exist. Iggy trudged past them all to get some breakfast. Chauffeuring Sal when his cravings and demons were on top of him was no fun at all.

“Well, what the hell were you in for?” Sal asked his general.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mickey said tiredly, “I beat the charge; I’m out. What did I miss?”

Sal hesitated to talk and stared pointedly at Mandy, clearly discomfited by her presence. She rolled her eyes and shoved away from the kitchen island to dump her dishes and utensils in the sink. “Whatever,” she sneered, “My vagina and I have better places to be.”

“Why you gotta be so goddamned crude, huh?!” he yelled after her as she stalked out the kitchen. “You should learn to be a lady, it would serve you better! No goddamned respect,” he grumbled before coming over to clap Mickey heartily on the back. “While you were cooling your heels in the clink, I’ve been making moves; major moves. The boys and I have been making everything ready.”

Mickey cast a quick, enquiring glance over at his older brother and Iggy simply shrugged behind Sal’s back. He hadn’t a clue what Salvatore was going on about. Mickey sniffed and nodded as he speared some more scrambled eggs and shoved them into his mouth.

“You were making big moves while I was gone?”

“I couldn’t wait on you,” Sal said defensively, “who the fuck knows where you fucked off to? But now you’re here, we can move full steam ahead and—”

“You talk to Fischetti yet?” Mickey asked him, “he says you’re into him deep, Sal.”

“Chump change,” Sal said, waving Mickey off. “Fischetti’s getting his frilly panties into a twist over fucking chump change. I’ll square with him and he can fuck off. He’s going to regret overlooking me; me, his own fucking family.”

“Linda’s his family; you’re just the stronzo that married her,” Mickey pointed out testily and Iggy gave him a warning look over Sal’s shoulder. Fortunately, the older man seemed to be in far too jocular of a mood to even register Mickey’s irritability or insults. “You need to at least talk to Fischetti, Sal. He was sending threats and warnings non-stop. If you want to be alive long enough to execute this grand plan of yours, you need to—”

“You worry like a goddamned woman,” Sal teased and patted Mickey’s face, all the while ignoring the blue eyes glaring incredulously at him. “You keep that shit up and you’re going to start creasing that pretty face or yours. You need to hang on to that face as long as you can. Now, first we need to get all the boys together and—”

Iggy and Mickey instinctively caught and latched on to Sal as the man tumbled off the stool and nearly collapsed on the floor. He laughed uproariously as the two young men struggled to right him. “Oh fuck, this shit hits hard,” he giggled and leaned heavily on Mickey.

“Sal, maybe you need to sleep this off a little,” Iggy suggested and nodded to Mickey so the two of them could guide Sal to the couch. “I mean, you were up all night.”

“Yeah, maybe I need a nap or something,” he said and let them lead him into the living room. “But it’s gonna be big, Mickey. We’ll be kings of this fucking garbage heap, you remember?” he asked. “You remember?!” he demanded again before his body bowed towards the couch. Iggy and Mickey released him and jumped clear as Sal crashed down like a building being demolished. Within seconds he was snoring. Mickey looked over at his brother. Iggy’s eyes were bloodshot and he seemed to be fighting the temptation to join Sal on the couch. He had had to leave Lisa and head straight for Sal.

“Long night?” Mickey asked dryly.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Iggy groaned and headed off to finish his breakfast and take a much needed nap in the basement.

* * *

“So you gave him an ultimatum?” Alex asked as Ian stole her fries.

“Wasn’t an ultimatum.”

“Hmm ‘him or me’ kind of sounds like an ultimatum.”

“Except it wasn’t,” Ian replied.

“How is ‘it’s him or me’ not an ultimatum?”

“There wasn’t an ‘or else’ involved.”

“The ‘or else’ was sort of implied though.”

“Except it wasn’t.”

Alex hummed quietly and rescued a fry from Ian’s grasp. “So… what if he chooses Sal?”

“He won’t.”

“But what if he does though?”

“He won’t.”

“I mean ideally he wouldn’t, but you have to admit that there are some powerful and messed up psychological forces at work. It’s not a simple matter of choosing the sweet prince over the twisted villain, is it?”

“He’ll choose me; he loves me. He wants to be with me. I know what he feels with me. You can't fake that… you don’t give that up. He’ll choose me.”

“Ian,” Alex sighed and gentled her voice as much as she could. She reached over to squeeze her friend’s hand. “I don’t want you to be unprepared here. This whole thing is so layered and complicated, and Mickey just might not be there yet. What if he chooses to stay with Sal?”

“He won’t.”

* * *

“Any word yet from Milkovich or Gallagher?” Agent Hernandez asked as she dumped her things on the conference table and looked around questioningly at her colleagues.

“Jesus, Hernandez, Milkovich has been out for just over a day,” Hendricks pointed out. “He’s probably doing nothing but eating, sleeping and using the bathroom with the door securely locked.”

“In any event, I doubt Mr. Gallagher is going to be too eager to present our case to Mickey,” Fowler sighed, “he’s Southside and that code is a hard one to break.”

Hernandez was unmoved. “We had our share of codes in the barrio too and I’m one of the Feds now. Too often, that ‘code’ only protects the worst of us, Salvatore included. Aunt Ginger needs to get woke, get over it and get with the program if he’s serious about helping his boyfriend.”

“‘Get woke,’” Agent Mueller repeated, “is this part of some new rash of colloquialisms that I’m going to be required to learn? What do words even mean any more?” she mused as she prepared their assignments and briefs for the day.

Hendricks and Hernandez exchanged an amused look before Hernandez started grilling her boss again. “If Gallagher can’t convince him, do we have anything else on Milkovich? Are there any contingencies?”

“I have thrown everything but the kitchen sink at that boy,” Agent Fowler replied.

“He once put on a puppet show for him,” Mueller informed the junior agents before indicating that they should check the updated information on their tablets, “to encourage him to walk the straight and narrow path.”

“Oh god, what?!” Hendricks asked, flabbergasted.

“Ask him how old Mickey was when he did this,” Mueller instructed and the agents all turned to their boss. Fowler pointedly ignored them and fiddled with his tablet, so Mueller filled them in. “He was fifteen; stuck in juvie with no way to escape and this man puts on a Punch and Judy show. It was legendary. I think the guards still talk about it to this day. I’m fairly certain that’s when Mickey fully turned to a life of crime.”

“Studies showed—” Fowler sputtered.

“There is no defending this, sir; please stop,” Hendricks said with a slow shake of his head.

“There is one other thing we considered using,” Mueller continued, “but there’s no evidence and there was no telling how it would play.”

“What?” Hernandez asked.

“Terry Milkovich.”

“The Milkoviches’ father?” Hendricks said, “I thought he was ‘whereabouts unknown’.”

“Oh, we have a fair idea where he is,” Mueller responded, “it’s pinpointing the exact location. Lake Michigan is a huge and temperamental search site.”

“He’s dead?!” Hendricks blurted out.

“Well I doubt he’s been treading water all this time,” Mueller said dryly.

“What happened?”

“That’s just the thing; we can’t say with any certainty,” Fowler joined in. “Our confidential informant at the time told us that Salvatore killed Terry himself and dumped him in the middle of the lake. Before we could use our CI to get anything even remotely useful or concrete on the issue, he disappears. Probably is having a long talk with Terry Milkovich as we speak.”

“Say what you want about Salvatore, his paranoia usually serves him well,” Mueller said.

“So why’d he kill him; to get the kids?” Hernandez asked.

“Nah, those kids weren’t on Sal’s radar in any way, shape or form. The way the CI told it, it was a crime of passion. Terry owed a large chunk of change to Salvatore and was quite eager to pay it off. Salvatore must have misread a signal somewhere and made Terry an indecent proposal as a way to work off his debt,” Fowler explained.

Mueller picked up the thread, “Terry, being a bit of a homophobe to say the least, rejected this proposal quite vehemently. Some inflammatory language might have been used and Salvatore lost his temper.”

“And the kids don’t know?!” Hernandez asked.

“What were we going to tell them? The information came years after the fact from a much reviled ‘rat’ who was promptly disposed of.  We didn’t have a shred of evidence that Terry was even dead, let alone murdered by Salvatore. Plus, Terry was a piece of shit to his kids. Even if we convinced them that Salvatore did kill their dad, by the end of the day, he’d probably have them believing it was the ultimate act of benevolence on his part—saving them from their abusive dad and then rescuing them from the edge of ruin,” Fowler pointed out. “It’s a dangerous card to play and it would probably only end up pushing them further into Sal’s sphere of control. I made the call not to play the card.”

Hernandez sighed and gathered up her things to head out on her assignment. If the murder of their remaining parent might not have been enough to send the Milkoviches over the edge, she had to wonder what would.

* * *

Ian beamed when he headed out after work and found Mickey waiting for him, casually leaning against his Mustang, smoking a cigarette and bathing in the dying sunlight of the day. When Mickey had been arrested, Spring had been on its last breath. Now the lingering heat of summer was on them and it seemed to promise nothing from Mickey but jeans, tank tops and aviator glasses. Ian was not complaining.

“What are you grinning at, weirdo?” Mickey asked, never mind that he was smiling back just as goofily.

“It just occurred to me that I’ve never had you in the summer,” Ian said as he plucked at Mickey’s tank and let it snap back softly against his abs. “We met in the fall.”

“Ah, well in the summer the suits get dumped, unless there’s some kind of super official business, and then it’s an all season pass to the gun show,” Mickey smirked as he flexed his biceps.

“You’re such dork,” Ian snorted and went to get in the car. As he settled into his seat, he glanced nervously into the rear view mirror and wondered if there were any eyes on them. Even as Mickey pulled out of the parking lot and they were on their way, he kept checking around.

“What’s with you?” Mickey asked him and caressed his thigh, “you’re acting all jumpy.”

“Do you even wonder if you’re being followed?”

“I get followed all the time,” Mickey told him, “I know when they’re there.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, they’re never that slick. Plus half the time, they want you to know they’re on you. No one’s there; we’re not being followed,” Mickey reassured him and entwined his fingers with Ian’s. “Since when are you worried about this mess? Sometimes you even have me thinking I made up being in the mob.”

Ian squeezed Mickey’s hand and tried to relax. “I just get reminded sometimes… that’s all.”

Eventually Mickey pulled into a motel on the outskirts of Chicago and Ian waited in the car while Mickey got their room and checked in. The small room was inexpensively furnished, but appeared clean and Ian was relieved to finally lock and bolt the door behind him. Mickey was waiting expectantly for him and Ian smiled softly and pulled him close, and sighed with satisfaction when Mickey’s lips eagerly claimed his own. They deepened their kiss, taking some time to explore each other with their tongues and hands, but Ian could feel Mickey’s demand building, and when Mickey pulled back to tug off his tank, Ian made him pause before resuming their kiss.

“Okay look, I love you and everything and I know you have all this fresh-out-of-jail pent-up horniness, but I just pulled a double… can we just maybe nap first?” he asked Mickey hesitantly.

Mickey nodded, “yeah, okay,” he answered and Ian sighed with relief as they shed their clothes and climbed into bed. Mickey laughed as Ian grumpily pulled his boxers off him. “You said we were just sleeping.”

“Naked sleeping,” Ian grunted and snuggled against Mickey’s back. “Just give daddy a couple hours; then he will wreck you.”

Mickey sighed heavily, but resisted rising to the bait. “Take your time, because it sounds like daddy just got the grandpa upgrade he was asking about,” he sang and fought his laughter as Ian flared up.

“Fuck you, I’ve been hauling boxes and stacking shit all day! I’m just tired.”

“Shh, take it easy, gramps,” Mickey soothed and reached back to stroke Ian’s thigh. “Think of your blood pressure. You need to save your strength.”

Ian snorted rudely and settled back down to sleep. “Bet you won’t be calling me grandpa later.”

Mickey grinned and stayed quiet. That was not a bet he was willing to take.

* * *

The following afternoon, Sal had finally managed to corral all the Milkovich brothers into his office to reveal his grand plan. Despite touting that he and the elder Milkovich boys had been working on the plan while Mickey was incarcerated, not one of his brothers could tell Mickey what Sal was on about. All Sal had done was run them ragged hunting down drugs for his increasingly staggering cravings. When Sal stood tall before them, puffing out his chest importantly, the brothers all waited with baited breath.

“We’re getting back in the game!” Sal said imperiously and five pairs of eyes stared back blankly at him.

It was Mickey who broke the puzzled silence. “And what game would that be?” he asked carefully.

“The drug game; what the fuck else could I be talking about?” Sal said, “the boys have been doing the research, finding out who the major suppliers are and their territories.”

“Is that what we were doing?” Joey mused out loud, earning a stern and silencing glance from Mickey.

“Sal, the Mob’s been out of the drug business for years—too much time for the crime, remember? The powers that be think it’s more trouble than what it’s worth,” Mickey reminded him.

“And that is short-sighted bullshit,” Sal said triumphantly, “we’re gonna get back in the game and turn this all around and run this city again. We’re sitting back letting dumb thugs like Dre and his kind run their little small time operations? It’s fucking stupid.”

“You have no idea what the size and scale of Dre’s operation are and how he runs shit. All of this is moot anyway, Sal. There’s an embargo on drugs. If Fischetti and the families didn’t eat us alive, the Feds would,” Mickey said.

“I’m telling you this is the way to the top!” Sal told Mickey. “We’ll be kings.”

“Um, so what’s the plan then… exactly?” Iggy tentatively chimed in, surprising everyone.

Iggy would be the first to admit that there weren’t a lot of topics he could speak on with any authority. He would never take offense to being called an ignoramus. There was one thing Iggy did know, however, and that was drugs. His own little operation was extremely small scale and very niche—a care he took to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes and drawing the ire of his superiors—but he studied the game voraciously.

Sal stared at him for a while, clearly contemplating whether or not Iggy was even worth the breath it would take to explain. The idea of having to explain himself to anyone, let alone Ignatius Milkovich, made his mouth twist unpleasantly. Still, he knew he was going to have to outline it at least generally so Mickey could go about making it happen.

“It’s simple enough,” Sal grumbled, “we go as far up the chain as we can, get to the main suppliers and start selling.”

“Well… what drugs do you want to sell?” Iggy asked and Sal stared back blankly.

“What the fuck kind of a moronic question is that?!”

“I mean, it goes to which suppliers you’d track down,” Iggy explained.

Sal shook his head slowly. “I—I guess we’d start with coke, maybe?” Sal suggested, feeling some of his authority ebb as he groped around for details. “Link up with the Columbians and get their shit.”

“The Columbians?” Iggy echoed as his brothers silently watched the exchange with equal parts apprehension and curiosity. “Who do you think is running the coke game now?”

Sal stared blankly. “Escobar?”

“Escobar?!” Iggy almost laughed, “Sal, Pablo Escobar has been dead almost as long as I’ve been alive. The Colombians are producers now, mostly, but they don’t run shit any more like that. It’s the Mexicans that run that shit now.”

“The Mexicans?” Sal echoed hollowly.

“Yeah, the Sinaloa Cartel? Chapo Guzmán?” Iggy hazarded, “look, the holy trinity of the drug trade are the Mexicans, the Chinese and the Blacks, and even in that the Blacks are mostly pushers and street dealers. You want coke, meth or heroin, you deal with the Mexicans; they reign supreme. The Chinese do chemicals, opium and pharmaceuticals; everyone does weed.  That’s just the trinity, you haven’t even thought about the Russians and the Middle East yet—”

Sal was struggling to keep up and his irritation was threatening to boil over. “So what the fuck does that have to do with what I want to do?!”

“I’m trying to say you can’t just enter the game like that, Sal. There’s a hierarchy, you know, a process. There are already so many players and only so much territory and if you want to get in the game, then you’d have to try and secure your territory, which means going to war with the status quo.”

“Then we go to fucking war!” Sal roared.

“We are not going to any fucking war,” Mickey scoffed. “Dre and his crew alone could kick our fucking asses if we tried to encroach on his territory. The Outfit has enough problems stopping the other families from scavenging us and keeping the Feds off our dicks. You think they’re gonna lift the embargo and back your ass in a war against the Mexicans or any of those other fuckers? Fischetti would never back this and even if he lost his mind and said okay, we don’t have the man power or resources to go to war with a billion Mexicans, Chinese and whoever. They’d just keep throwing bodies at us until we ran out of bullets, and then have us for lunch!”

Sal looked between Iggy and Mickey, “what the fuck are you trying to say to me here?”

“You just… you just can’t enter the game like this,” Iggy repeated quietly, “even if you nabbed a major supplier, you’d be putting other retailers on notice and pissing someone off and if the Boss says we can’t deal, then we can’t deal. It’s not like the five of us alone could do anything but get killed almost immediately,” Iggy said before pausing and trying to think of a more positive bookend. “Maybe your next plan will be better?”

Sal came after him like a bat out of hell. “You fucking stupid piece of shit!” he screamed as he rammed into Iggy and sent him slamming into the wall. Iggy’s head bounced off the solid surface only to meet Sal’s fist as he smashed it into Iggy’s face.

The brothers seemed to snap awake as Iggy slumped to the floor, already unconscious—not that it mattered to Sal. The older man dropped heavily to his knees over Iggy’s still form, ready to pummel him into a bloody pulp.

“Sal, don’t you fucking do it!” Mickey yelled and moved to grab Sal. Tony beat him to it, blocking Mickey’s path and grabbing Sal’s raised fist in an iron grip.

Sal whipped his head back to look up at Tony staring down at him; the latter’s face expressionless and his grip only tightening. Sal hadn’t a prayer of wriggling out of Tony’s grasp and the pressure on his wrist was becoming crushing. Sal was trapped on his knees, sweat starting to bead his forehead and his breathing growing laboured.

“Sal, that’s enough now, right?” Mickey asked him, his own voice close to cracking under the sudden stress and peril of the moment. Jaime and Joey stared bug-eyed and slack-jawed as the scene stretched on. “We’re okay now, right?”

Sal nodded slowly, his eyes not leaving Tony’s impassive face. “Call him off,” Sal croaked as if talking about a mad, guard dog. “I’m done.”

“Tony,” Mickey said softly and Tony released Sal so abruptly, the man almost pitched forward to crash on top of Iggy. Sal held his wrist which was almost as bruised as his ego and struggled to his feet while all the still conscious Milkoviches backed off. Eventually, Sal stumbled out of the room without a further word and fled the house.

As the moment broke, the enormity of what he’d just done descended on Tony swiftly and he looked at Mickey desperately, his eyes growing wide with fear. “Mick—”

“Nah, you’re good; you’re fine,” Mickey hastened to comfort his brother as Joey ran to Iggy’s aid. “It’s fine, you’re fine; we’re all fine,” Mickey sniffed as he rubbed at his face and desperately tamped down his own apprehension. If he lost his shit now, his brothers would fall apart. “Clear out for a while,” Mickey said to Tony, “just to be on the safe side. I’ll call you when Sal’s cool again. Jaime, take him home. Me and Joey have Ig.”

Jaime nodded and yanked Tony out of the room so they could once again lay low until Mickey gave the all clear. Mickey knelt beside Joey who was unsuccessfully trying to rouse his brother.

“He’s out cold, Mick.”

“Jesus,” Mickey muttered as he gently slapped Iggy’s face. He quickly checked his watch. “She shouldn’t be gone yet. Go get Linda.”

* * *

“God, I thought you all learned how to get the hell out his way by now,” Linda said beneath her breath as she concluded her examination of Iggy. By the time she had hustled to the pool house, Iggy had regained consciousness, but clearly wasn’t in the best of shape. “Now I’m late for work because I had to stop and play fucking Mob doctor. Iggy, who is the president?”

“The black guy?” Iggy replied after a while as he looked up at Linda from his seat on Mickey’s bed.

“Would I have gotten a better answer if he was operating at a hundred percent?” she asked Mickey.

“I doubt it,” Mickey said and Joey shook his head.

“Well close enough then,” she sighed. She packed up her bag and went to speak to Mickey. “He has a mild concussion,” she told him, “so you know the drill. Check for any worsening symptoms, headache, vomiting, aphasia, anything like that.” She also handed him a bottle of aspirin and said, “any signs of trouble, you take him in to the emergency room. Hopefully for all of us that won’t be necessary. Don’t do any deep thinking, Iggy!” she called back as she left the room.

“You got it!” Iggy yelled back and slowly lay back on the bed.

“Don’t go to sleep yet, asswipe,” Mickey told him, “I’m taking you down to the house.”

* * *

Mandy, Joey and Mickey stayed at the Milkovich house and took turns checking on their ailing brother as he slept; occasionally shaking him awake and asking him inane questions to make sure he wasn’t getting worse. Iggy didn’t appreciate the frequent interruptions to his beauty rest. When Mickey entered for what felt like the hundredth time, Iggy sighed his annoyance loudly.

“Yeah, this ain’t fun for me either, asshole,” Mickey yawned. “What’s ten times three?”

“Banana carriage,” Iggy answered, surprising both himself and Mickey.

“What?”

“Possum hunching… MasterCard glitter bomb?”

“Oh shit, fuck!” Mickey panted and patted himself for his cell phone, but he was only clad in his boxers and a T-shirt. He started hollering for his sister and was about to run for the door, only to be stopped by Iggy laughing.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Iggy called out, waving him down and quickly covered his face with a pillow before Mickey could wail on him.

“You fucking son of a—” Mickey smacked the pillow covering his brother’s face and then took a seat on the bed next to him. He swiped one of Iggy’s cigarettes off the cluttered nightstand and lit up. “Don’t make that joke,” he told his brother.

“Sorry,” Iggy giggled a little as he cautiously put the pillow aside. He also lit up a cigarette and lay back, and the two brothers smoked for a while in silence. After a while, Iggy looked at his brother. “I wasn’t trying to insult him or anything, Mick.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mickey said quietly.

“It’s just that it’s a really bad plan, right? We can’t go to war with nobody, Mick… even if we have Jaime and Tony. We’d be fucked and Fischetti would kill us even after the Mexicans did. You can’t let him do this.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Iggy paused again and pulled on his cigarette and contemplated his next words carefully, almost shuddering at the blasphemy of it all. “Mick… I don’t think Sal’s all there anymore.”

“Yeah,” Mickey said so softly, it was almost inaudible. “I know.”

* * *

Mickey returned to an empty pool house the next morning. Ian had gone to work and Sal was probably out somewhere, licking his wounds. Now there was the waiting game to see what version of Sal showed up and how much damage control he would have to do to make sure he and his brothers stayed clear of Sal’s wrath. He tried to guess at Sal’s reasoning. Would the mobster see it as rebellion or disrespect? None of them had ever dared raise a hand to Sal before and now Mickey found himself firmly in uncharted territory with little clue as to how to navigate.

He wound up waiting almost all day. Mickey eventually drifted to the kitchen to whip up a quick dinner and his breath stopped at the sound of the front door opening. It was Ian who came home next, but Ian hadn’t even had a chance to reach for him before the door was opening again and Sal was coming in. Ian awkwardly backed out of the kitchen, murmured his greetings to Sal and shot upstairs. Mickey had filled Ian in on the whole tale the night before and Ian was equally at sea about manoeuvring the tricky situation.

To Mickey’s surprise, Sal didn’t come at him or start demanding retribution or promise hellfire. Instead, the older man shuffled uncertainly in the hallway before slowly coming into the kitchen to exchange subdued greetings with his subordinate.

“Everything okay?” Mickey hazarded.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sal answered. “Iggy alright?” he asked to Mickey’s astonishment. When Mickey nodded, Sal continued. “tell the boys it’s alright, okay? It’s alright… I went too far.”

Mickey nodded again, his mouth dry with astonishment and gratitude. He had thought Sal would have returned with murder in his eyes. He watched as Sal trudged slowly up the stairs and sat for a while to let the moment absorb. After he’d finished up in the kitchen, he took his phone out to get the message out to his brothers that they were in the clear, but didn’t even get the chance to type the first letter before the screaming stopped him.

* * *

Despite his calm and humble demeanour with Mickey, Sal was feeling neither reasonable nor forgiving. It had been the first time he’d ever felt real fear of his closest crew and saw his control over them snap in a moment. Any punishment he felt like meting out would have to wait for a while. He couldn’t afford to alienate them; they were all he had. The made men in his “official” crew, at best, barely concealed their disdain for him. They took his orders when he gave them, but there was no denying they really served at Fischetti or Big Tony’s pleasure. Probably spies, the lot of them.

The Milkovich boys were supposed to be his and his alone, but in that moment they had been willing to turn on him to protect one of their own. They followed Mickey, not him, and the realization was an odd sort of crushing. Mickey had left jail agitated and stirred up and Sal could sense the unsettlement in his general. No, until he got them in line again, it was best to calm the waters between them for now and then mete out his punishment when order had been restored.

Still, that was no balm for his pride. He had felt attacked and humiliated; his grand plan dashed by the likes of an absolute moron no less. His plan had seemed so brilliant and straight-forward, only to be picked apart by those sneering vultures. After all this time, were they going to treat him like he was nothing too? As if he wasn’t a man with a goddamned brain in his head? He saved them from the gutter, fed them, raised them, and they were going to look down their noses at him when he spoke? The audacity was gut-wrenching.

He pushed the door to Ian’s room open and found Ian changing into a fresh T-shirt. Ian glanced up at him briefly and there was that fucking look again, like a mild breeze had opened the door, as if Ian saw nothing there. “What the fuck are you doing?” he growled menacingly at Ian, though for the latter’s response, he might as well have been a Chihuahua yapping at an Alsatian.

“I’m preparing to storm the beaches of Normandy,” Ian said, the eye-roll evident in his tone even if not on his face. “What does it look like I’m doing? I just got in from work. I did a double.”

“Why the fuck is it so hard for you to talk to me with a little respect, huh?!” Sal accused, his voice climbing rapidly, “and why the fuck do you need to work this much? You’re going to act like I don’t take care of you?! What the fuck are you really doing?”

Now there was no suppressing the eye-roll. “Jesus, Sal, I swear to god you’re worse than a broken record. Yes, I was working. That’s how some of us make our money, by doing boring, soul-crushing jobs. You should try it some time; I hear it builds character.”

“Oh you stupid, empty-headed prick! I should—”

“Why the fuck are you screaming at him?” Mickey’s voice cut through Sal’s rage and the mobster rounded on him instead.

“Why don’t you mind your own goddamned business?!” Sal yelled at him, “me and him are having a conversation that has fuck all to do with you!”

Mickey was unmoved. “You got a problem, you need to handle it. You don’t need to take it out on him. Why are you always going off all the fucking time? And it’s never on the people or the problems you need to be going off on!”

“So you’re going to mouth off to me now? What, you think you’re fucking somebody all of a sudden?! What the fuck are you even doing in here? Running in here like he’s some goddamned damsel in distress. You think you work for him?!”

“Mick, it’s okay,” Ian said softly, trying to diffuse the situation and get Mickey to leave without incident.

Ian’s placatory actions only served to rile Sal up more. That fear and docility he had been trying his damndest to instil in Ian never seemed to pop up until Mickey was around. It was like watching the rise of Big Tony all over again.

“Why are you always so fucking concerned?” Sal continued to rage, “‘Why are you still with him, Sal?’ ‘Aren’t you tired of him yet, Sal?’ Then you’re going to come running in here like—” Sal paused in his ranting; something about the uneasy look on Mickey’s face and the odd tension in the room feeding his growing realization. He stared at Mickey before turning back to look at Ian, whose Adam’s apple bobbed nervously in his throat as he stared between Sal and Mickey. “No, you…” Sal began as his confusion deepened. It simply wasn’t possible. “But you’re…” he started again, unable to articulate what he could not believe. “You… and him?” Sal finally said to Mickey, his voice small and bewildered. Mickey swallowed audibly before straightening his spine and staring Sal down. It seemed to take forever for Sal to process whatever thoughts or emotions that were bubbling inside him, but he eventually reached a conclusion with grim finality. “I’m going to kill you,” he said with an uncharacteristically quiet determination as he lunged for Mickey.

“Yeah, not fucking likely,” came a voice behind him and for the second time in as many days, Salvatore found himself stopped by a force much greater than himself. His charge was aborted as he was yanked back—almost off his feet—and strong arms pulled him into a chokehold.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Mickey squeaked, his voice coming out a couple octaves too high as he watched Ian try to choke Sal out.

Sal thrashed impotently against the hold and clawed desperately at Ian’s arms, but Ian was solid and unmoving and Sal’s strength quickly ebbed. “Go to sleep, Sal,” Ian ordered as Sal’s thrashing lessened and the man started to slump. “Go to sleep,” Ian said quietly and fell forward with Sal as the man passed out.

“What the fuck did you do?!” Mickey was beside himself as Ian got to his feet. Sal was left kowtowed on the floor. “Oh my god, Ian! Oh my fucking god!”

“He was attacking you!”

“Fucking let him! What did you just—oh my god!”

“What, so you get to charge in here to save me, but I’m supposed to just let him try and kill you?! Have we met?!”

“Oh my god,” Mickey moaned as he paced in short, tight circles, “he’s going to kill us. He’s going to kill you,” Mickey said before turning to Ian abruptly, “you gotta go. You gotta go now!”

“Fuck no, we’re—” Ian paused and turned to see that Sal was already stirring. “Jesus, what the fuck is he on?!” Ian muttered darkly as he stepped over Sal’s quivering form and strode purposely to the night table. What was it with drugged-out losers like Sal and Frank that made them virtually indestructible? Ian was tired of it. He grabbed a lamp and before Mickey could even blink, smashed it over Sal’s head. The older man was out like a light.

“IAN!” Mickey wailed, “Just… stop! Stop doing things!”

“We needed more time,” Ian pointed out matter-of-factly, “Jesus, is it all the drugs that turn him into a fucking rhino? If only his brain worked half as well—” Ian trailed off as he was hit by sudden inspiration. “Okay, you need to go.”

“What?!”

“I know how to handle this,” Ian told him.

“Like fuck I’m leaving you here with him!”

“You wanted me to leave you here.”

“B-Because!”

“Because what?”

Mickey was almost flailing, “it’s _my_ job to deal with him!”

“Well tough,” Ian told him, “I told you before, you’re not alone in this. I promise you I can handle this, but you can’t be here.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re about to shit yourself and that’s kind of a giveaway of guilt,” Ian said and tried to head off Mickey’s next protest. “At the very least you know I can outrun him, right? If it goes sideways, I promise to get out of his way and I’ll text you 911.” He took Mickey’s face between his hands so he could keep Mickey still and look into his eyes. “I’ve got this, I swear. Please trust me to do this. Please let me do this for us.”

Mickey took a deep breath and reluctantly nodded. “I won’t be far.”

“Yeah, I know.”

* * *

When Sal woke up, he found himself staring at the ceiling from his bed. In the corner of the room, Ian sat contentedly in the arm chair, cleaning his shoes. Sal’s brow furrowed as he took Ian in, his head still throbbing painfully though he wasn’t quite sure why. His body felt sluggish and heavy and he knew dopesickness would not be far off. Still, right then Ian had his fractured focus.

“You…” Sal began, but hated how fragile and feeble his voice sounded. Ian looked up at the sound.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

The resignation tinged with irritation in Ian’s voice took Sal aback. He had thought Ian would have been long gone or at least on his knees grovelling if he dared to stay. Yet, Ian seemed as comfortable as could be and even seemed annoyed with him.

“You…” he started again and Ian looked at him askance.

“Me,” Ian confirmed. “Jesus, are you still high? I’m not going to deal with you coming at me all the time because you can’t maintain on your shit.”

Sal was plunging further into confusion and he had already woken up foggy. “You and Mickey,” he persisted.

“Me and Mickey what, Sal?” Ian sighed, his impatience evident.

“You… you and him; there was a look,” his words were as disjointed as this thoughts. “You’re fucking him.”

Ian scratched his cheek, befuddled at first, but his bemusement was giving way to some humour. “I’m fucking Mickey now? Is there anyone I’m not fucking in your estimation?”

The more he spoke about it out loud, the more ridiculous it sounded to his own ears. But he wasn’t an idiot; Sal knew what he saw—he thought. “There was a look,” he repeated lamely.

“What does that even mean, Sal? A look? Between me and Mickey? We looked at each other so we’re fucking?” Ian had clearly decided to be amused by Sal’s decline rather than offended. The redhead settled down to mock his lover. “Describe the look; was he undressing me with his eyes? Was it steamy?”

Sal could feel his face reddening and his head pounded painfully. “You choked me out to protect him!” Sal accused as forcefully as he could manage and struggled to sit up. He fell back and looked to see that Ian’s humour had vanished and his face had gone hard.

“No, I knocked you the fuck out because you were ranting like a lunatic and came at me. I told you what I would do if you put your hands on me, Sal. I don’t tolerate that shit. Act out your violent delusions somewhere else.”

“I… what did I—”

“I was here for all of five minutes before you came in screaming at me about work and betrayal and respect and god knows what else. I couldn’t work out shit about what you were ranting about. I tried to calm you down and you came at me. Be glad I didn’t leave your ass on the floor.”

Sal was dumbfounded. What Ian said rang of the truth and in his head was a muddled version of just that. It was getting harder and harder to think, and Sal knew he needed another hit soon to even out. Yet still he could have sworn.

“Mickey?” he asked uncertainly.

Ian shrugged, “fuck if I know. Haven’t seen him since yesterday.” They both fell silent and Ian gentled his look and his voice to make his final salvo devastating. “Look, Sal, are you… okay? I mean—”

The concern and confusion almost had Sal crumpling. The past two days had made him feel smaller and more wretched than he ever had before and now the edges of his reality were blurring and fading. Ian knew he should feel at least a twinge of guilt as he watched Sal deflate. He knew as well as anyone what it was like to truly question if he could trust the things his own mind was telling him. It was one of the things that shook him on occasion—just how much he could empathize with Sal in the right setting and at the right moment. And right now he was using that empathy to gaslight a drug-addled old man. Ian could only pray that, for all their sakes, it worked.


	32. Atlas Shrugged

It was a high-wire act for everyone after Sal’s gaslighting. The man was deeply confused and suspicious of everyone and everything, including himself. His mind was apparently playing terrible tricks on him now—probably the effect of the drugs he couldn’t stop—and Sal didn’t know who or what he could trust. He was at his most vulnerable and everyone was a potential enemy; every move he made was now a possible misstep. He feared them now, but he needed Mickey and his brothers; he simply couldn’t function without them on almost any level. The dependence only served to make him even surlier and feel even more wretched.

Everyone tried to navigate the tension as best they could. Mickey and Ian had to quickly perfect their own balancing act. There could be no lapses while Sal was around. They couldn’t be too chummy, lest Sal put them further under the microscope, nor could they distance themselves from each other lest that too seemed suspicious to Sal. They just had to be normal—nice, platonic normal—and keep lending credence to the confused, crazy old man rhetoric.

Of course, all the circumspection and walking on eggshells only made Ian perversely want to buck the system. It was the worst struggle not to rail against the restrictions and eschew the continued dominance of a deranged man who was only deteriorating in every worst possible way. He wanted to be able to cook for Mickey in their kitchen, while Mickey watched him in that contented way he always did. He wanted to harass Mickey while the latter was working out on his pull-up bar. He wanted to be able to kiss the back of Mickey’s neck whenever the notion struck him. Ian didn’t just want the freedom of his old apartment back, or the freedom of Sal’s drug-fuelled absences. He wanted the freedom of Salvatore Boerio truly gone.

Ian felt that way now more than ever after spending the better part of the morning idling in the kitchen with Mandy while Sal watched all of them like a hawk. The older Milkovich brothers drifted in and out of the pool house and milled about, tensely waiting for some kind of orders or direction. Mickey had yet to come downstairs and Sal had seemed to stall completely since his grand plan had fallen apart. The brothers were rudderless and still anxious about their own standing with Sal, who had difficulty remembering and maintaining his plan to keep the waters calm and keep the brothers close. His bitterness would ooze out far too often to put them at ease.

They all knew Sal would have to leave at some point. He was low on his “prescription” and had a very low tolerance for pain and malaise. His decision to shove off was hastened somewhat by the blatant hostility emanating from both Ian and Mandy as they glared at him from across the kitchen. The mobster grew steadily fidgety and discomfited and finally shuffled to his feet.

“I, uh, need to go out for a bit,” he mumbled.

“You need one of us to drive you?” Jaime asked him and pocketed his phone in readiness to leave and chauffer Sal.

Sal quickly waved him off. “No, no,” he said hastily, “I’ll drive myself. I can still do shit; I’m not a goddamned cripple.”

Jaime sat back down at the kitchen island without a further word. Sal could feel all their eyes boring into him as he shuffled off and his relief was as palpable as theirs when he finally closed the pool house door behind him.

“Ugh, thought the fucker would never leave,” Mandy said as the whole house seemed to breathe so much easier.

Jaime went upstairs briefly to consult with his brother and returned with their assignments. He yelled at the brothers in the basement to get moving.

“What’s he doing up there?” Ian asked Jaime.

“His Michael Corleone impression,” Jaime joked, but then clarified when he saw Ian’s confused face. “Replacing the Don,” Jaime explained, “if Sal’s not going to run this shit, someone has to.”

* * *

That was the very last thing Ian wanted to hear. As soon as the house emptied and Ian was certain Sal was beyond sudden doubling back distance, he made his way upstairs. He found Mickey in Sal’s study, sitting in Sal’s chair and rubbing the bridge of his nose in agitation as he tried to puzzle out the future.

“What’s going on?” he asked Mickey.

“We’ve got rats,” Mickey sighed.

“What, in the house?” Ian said cluelessly until Mickey gave him the eye and he caught on, “oh _rats_ , right, sorry.”

“The Boss sent the order down today to clean house and tighten things up, but I don’t even think Sal heard him. Now he’s pissed off somewhere. I’m not made, I can’t do sniffing around real wise guys without an order to cover my ass. They’d gut me like a fish.”

“So don’t,” Ian said, “this is Sal’s job, not yours. Even if he gave you the order, you shouldn’t do it. There’s no way you wouldn’t piss those guys off trying to investigate them and questioning their precious mob integrity. Stop picking up his flack. Let Sal feel some heat for once.”

“His consequences are our consequences,” Mickey tried explaining again. “Anything happens to him is gonna happen to us so much worse,” he sighed. “Look, I’m not trying to do too much here, just trying to buy us some time and do due diligence.”

Ian wasn’t about to argue in circles with Mickey right then. All he wanted for the moment was to get his boyfriend out of mob mode. Mickey was even in his business casual mob attire of rolled up sleeves and a vest, despite the summer clause. All the brothers had returned to this form for the day, no doubt in an effort to appease Sal. It never failed to make an attractive visual on Mickey, but Ian could live without it.

“Then you should do your due diligence with me then,” Ian said suddenly, surprising and distracting Mickey.

“Huh?”

“You never did your due diligence with me, did you?” Ian said more teasingly. “Never searched my place or checked me for that wire or anything.”

Mickey gave him a warning glare as he leaned back in Sal’s chair. “Don’t make that joke.”

Ian continued recklessly. “I could be wired right now for all you know,” Ian raised his eyebrows suggestively and tugged at his T-shirt. “I could be spilling all your secrets.”

Mickey’s glare narrowed before he slowly got up from his chair and circled the table. “Don’t make that joke,” Mickey cautioned him again as he came to a stop in front of Ian, “I take that shit seriously, Ian.”

Ian knew he did and Mickey’s warning was enough to give him pause even as it got his pulse racing. There was no denying the seductive allure of Mickey the Mobster and the undercurrent of genuine danger and menace that came with him. It was a strange feeling to find something arousing and yet want it gone all at the same time. Still, Ian would find any version of Mickey desirable no matter what, but this Mickey was Sal’s creation, borne out of desperation, necessity and misuse. Ian didn’t know if it was foolish to feel that way, but lately every time Mickey slipped into that persona, Ian feared it was claiming another piece of Mickey while time was running out to get him back.

Ian searched Mickey’s face for humour and found none, but he threw caution to the wind anyway. “You better look for that wire,” he purred and then gasped when Mickey shoved him against the locked door.

Mickey paused as his eyes swept down Ian’s torso and he pondered how he should play Ian’s little game. He didn’t know what Ian was trying to pull sometimes and what sort of anxieties drove his boyfriend’s actions. He knew Ian wasn’t wired, but now the thought was in his head and it niggled at him. Part of him needed to settle the thought once and for all, part of him just wanted to be the normal boyfriend that Ian needed. Mickey had been told that he had to choose between satisfying those two impulses, but maybe Ian was being too fatalistic. Mickey had been doing a balancing act for years and he’d managed to make it work thus far. Why not now? He flattened his hands against Ian’s chest and slowly slid them down over Ian’s stomach and down to his hips.

Ian was both dubious and amused. “Are you seriously frisking me right now, or are you feeling me up?”

“Shut up,” Mickey growled and miraculously Ian obeyed. He smirked at Ian’s sharp intake of breath when he slipped his hands beneath Ian’s shirt and slowly slid them back up Ian’s chest. He then stroked Ian’s back, slowly raking his blunted nails over Ian’s skin before pausing his caresses to undo Ian’s jeans. He shoved them down to Ian’s knees before painstakingly running his hands over Ian’s hips over the thin material of his boxers and firmly squeezing his ass.  He stroked down the back of Ian’s thighs and then quickly slid a warm hand up between them to grasp Ian’s hardened cock. He gave Ian a lopsided grin as he freed Ian through the opening of his boxers.

Ian’s words stuttered and stalled as Mickey pressed closer to his side and started stroking him in firm, measured movements. He groaned softly and thrust into Mickey’s grasp and his boyfriend grasped him a little tighter and moved a little faster, and his warm breath stirred against Ian’s ear. He gripped Mickey’s bicep and moaned his name as Mickey’s thumb moved tantalizingly over the slit of his cock and Mickey’s other hand slipped into the back of his boxers. Mickey groped his ass and then moved lower to tease him by brushing a digit over Ian’s opening. It was still a fairly alien feeling and Ian was surprised by how electrified he was by the touch. He murmured incoherently and squeezed Mickey’s arm even harder while fisting his free hand into Mickey’s vest. He came with a harsh grunt and a sigh and spilled hotly into Mickey’s hand. He shot Mickey a baleful glare as his boyfriend laughed and pulled away to grab his pocket square to clean up.

“You just frisked me,” Ian said with a disbelieving shake of his head.

“No, I didn’t,” Mickey scoffed, but undermined his denial with a dip of his head and a quick glance away from Ian.

“Yeah… yeah, you did. Making me come doesn’t rob me of my cognitive abilities, Mickey. At least not for long,” Ian said before grabbing Mickey by the tie and spinning him around to shove him against the wall. “You just frisked me, because I put a suspicious thought in your head and you just couldn’t trust that I was messing with you and leave it alone.”

“I was doing my due diligence,” Mickey replied, staring up at Ian with innocent eyes, “like you said.”

Ian stared back and snorted softly. “You’re still going to try, aren’t you? You’re going to try your damndest to find that middle ground where you think you can keep me and keep doing this shit,” Ian said. “You can’t though; it’s impossible,” Ian began and pushed Mickey back against the wall as the latter began to fidget as he physically rejected the idea. “How? How do you think this is going to work? Sal is just a tragedy of a human being at this point. He is a parody of a mob boss, Mick. How are you going to make any of this work with him? Are you going to shove your hand up his ass and become his puppet master so he sounds halfway competent? You’re not going to find that magic compromise between him and me; you’re going to have to ch—”

“Choose, yeah, I got it. You’ve already made that abundantly clear,” Mickey snapped. “Jesus Christ, so this is all on me now, for real? When I was telling you this couldn’t work, you all but laughed in my face and said we’d find a way. Now we’re in this deep, you want to put this all on me? I’ve got to make that choice?”

Ian sighed. “I thought we could make this situation work, alright? I was wrong. I can’t share you with Sal; I can’t share you with this life, Mickey. But I made my choice and it’s you, but now you have to make yours. Sometimes I get it, but sometimes I can’t understand why this is so hard for you. There’s nothing left of him! There’s nothing to restore!”

Mickey shook his head and stared down at his shoes. “He’s fucked up right now, but he can get through this shit. We can get him dried out and—”

“Oh my god,” Ian groaned and covered his face with his hands, “oh my fucking god, are you serious right now? What, you’re going to try to make him go to rehab?” Ian laughed bitterly, utterly bowled over by the delusion. “You know what; I can’t deal with this right now. Just-just move,” Ian sighed and nudged a silent and sullen Mickey out of the way so he could get out of the house and get some air. He was gaining a deeper appreciation for Dr. Lester. Dealing with this shit every day was just gut-wrenching.

* * *

Still, it was hard to stay mad, especially when Mickey rolled his hips like that and made those sounds. Ian sighed contentedly and thrust upwards into Mickey, dragging deep moans out of them both. He reached up to pinch Mickey’s nipple and thrilled in the way Mickey gasped and clenched around him. He sat up so he could nip at Mickey’s shoulder and bury his face in his neck, but then caught sight of the closet beyond Mickey. It was only then he realized that they weren’t at their motel, but still in Ian’s bedroom.

“Shit,” Ian sighed as he fell back against his pillow and Mickey kept rocking on top of him. “We can’t be in here,” he told Mickey, who seemed strangely oblivious and uncaring towards any cause for concern. “You’re so loud, you idiot,” he moaned and gripped Mickey’s hips. “We don’t know when he’ll be back.”

Mickey finally opened his eyes and looked down at him. “He’s not going to say anything. He’s not going to say fuck all about anything, any more,” Mickey said and glanced over to his left.

Ian had a fair idea of what he would see when he followed Mickey’s look. Yet, the sight of Sal, still and silent, the familiar brown eyes staring sightlessly at them was shocking—the huge bouquet of blood roses sticking out of his chest even more so. Ian wasn’t sure if they were blooming from Sal’s chest or if he’d simply been stabbed with them. Ian also wasn’t sure if they were naturally that colour, or they appeared that way because they were covered in Sal’s blood, because it was everywhere. Blood covered Sal, it soaked the sheets; Ian could feel it seeping underneath him. When he looked back at Mickey, his boyfriend was drenched in it, coated red except for the bright pair of blue eyes and the gash of white teeth. And yet the strangest thing about the scene was how unbothered Ian felt by it. He was feeling quite the opposite really.

“I did good, right?” Mickey asked him. “I’m good?”

Ian glanced over at Sal once more. “Yeah,” he said and reached up to tug lightly on Mickey’s gold chain before grabbing him around the waist and flipping him onto the bed. “You’re perfect.”

Ian awoke with a gasp, awash with sweat and alone in his bedroom. “Oh, that was fucked up,” he groaned as he sat up in bed and ran his hand over his face and through his hair. He looked down to see that he was still rock hard and groaned again, “ugh, and that’s fucked up too, Jesus.”

* * *

Alex groped around blindly for her phone and slapped it caveman-style to answer the call. “Are you dying? Are you dead? You better be dead or dying, fucker!”

“Close, I had a fucked-up dream!”

“Who the fuck is that?!” A man growled grumpily from Alex’s side of the line.

“Who the fuck is that?!” Ian shot back, taking umbrage at the man’s annoyance with his call.

“Ian, Dre,” Alex answered tiredly.

“Oh,” both men replied in tandem, having momentarily forgotten the other’s existence. Dre rolled over and went back to sleep and Ian prepared to tell her his dream. In that moment, Alex hated them both.

“I know you didn’t call me at two in the morning to tell me one of your Psych101 dreams, you ginger twat.”

“Only Mickey gets to call them that and no, this one was crazy. I was fucking on a bed of blood, Allie!” he began and quickly rattled off his dream to his very unimpressed friend.

“Bitch, get the fuck off my phone!” she ordered.

“What is wrong with you?! I’m freaking out over here! What is happening to me?!”

“What’s happening? You hate Sal, have violent tendencies towards him, but want Mickey to make the actual decision to finally and definitively choose you, and it’s probably been more than two hours since you fucked your boyfriend, so your simple ass is probably just horny again. That about cover it?”

Ian shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other in his bathroom and scratched his neck. “Well, I mean, when you say it like that, I guess it could be interpreted that way or something,” he grumbled. Godammit, he wasn’t a simple man! “Ah, but what about the roses though?!... Hello? Allie?” he said to a dead line. He sniffed as the phone went dark. “I can have complicated dreams too,” he assured himself before going back to bed.

* * *

“I’m taking a shower,” Mandy told Ian, who was sprawled on the couch watching TV. She had just stomped into the pool house and now she was stomping up the stairs while Ian waved her his blessing. She felt like a nomad, bouncing in between houses and crash sites while feeling as if she didn’t quite belong to any of them anymore. Her Southside home was too empty without her brothers there, she had been essentially evicted from the pool house and she had no intentions of calling the Rub and Tug home. The thought put her in a sour mood as she went to tidy up.

Another symptom of her mild vagrancy was that laundry tended to fall by the wayside. She realized this after she exited the bathroom into her former bedroom and remembered that her stash of fresh clothes there had dwindled. She could reuse her jeans, she reasoned, and go braless for the day. She managed to wrangle up some underwear, but she was all out of tops. She decided to rifle through Ian’s drawers for one of his super-tight T-shirts or tanks, figuring that would hold her for the day. She found a black tank that she felt she could be satisfied with and held it up with a flourish, only to be distracted by a small, white card fluttering out of it to the ground. She picked it up, skimmed over it and promptly paled. She kept staring at it until Mickey wandered out of his own bedroom.

“Ay, you heading down to the place, or what?” Mickey asked her, but got no response. He quirked an eyebrow and leaned in the doorway. “What’s with you? He doesn’t have anything you can wear?”

She turned and slowly extended the card towards her brother. “Mick…”

* * *

Ian was starting to wonder if Mandy had a slip-and-fall in his bathroom. He hadn’t heard so much as a peep from upstairs in a while. He stirred and made his way upstairs, only to find the siblings in his room, inexplicably staring down at a piece of paper Mickey was holding. Ian’s heart stopped when he realized what it really was and Mickey slowly turned to look at him.

“What the fuck is this?”

Ian opened his mouth and closed it again, all the time trying to force his brain to start working. Mickey looked back wordlessly at his sister, and the towel-clad young woman quickly gathered up all her clothes and all but ran from the room, avoiding eye-contact with Ian as she did so. The door clicked softly and the two men were left alone.

“Ian?”

“It isn’t—I didn’t,” Ian started with a stumble, “they approached me… after I came to see you.”

Mickey’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“After I came to see you in jail,” Ian continued, “they found me a couple days later. I guess—I guess they kind of figured us out.” He could hear Mickey’s intake of breath from where he stood.

“They know… about me and you?” Mickey asked softly, “did they already know or did you fill in the blanks for them?”

Ian was momentarily stymied by that. He could have sworn they had known beforehand, but had he inadvertently just confirmed their guesswork? He honestly wasn’t sure. “I think they knew already,” he answered, “but I don’t really know now.”

“When the fuck were you going to tell me about that, Ian?!” Mickey’s voice was rising and warming and Ian found himself wanting to retreat in the face of it, but stood firm.

“They know already and they said they weren’t going to use it against us,” he said in a rush, cognizant of how ridiculous and naïve—if not suspect—it all sounded. “You were already dealing with so much, I just didn’t want you freaking out over that too, or thinking that I—” he faltered, “I didn’t say anything. He just showed up and talked at me for a while and gave me his card. That’s it, I swear!”

Mickey sucked in his lower lip and looked unseeingly into the mirror as he tried to measure his thoughts. “Alright, okay, so they know, they came to you and tried to hustle you. You didn’t say anything, right? You aren’t going to say anything, so why the fuck do you still have this?”

Ian stared at the card then back at Mickey. “I just, I didn’t think it was—” he sighed heavily, “we need a way out, Mickey, and I just thought maybe—”

“That you could get me to snitch and everything would be just hunky-dory after that?” Mickey said scathingly as he started to rip up the card. “You thought that you could bring me to the table and then they’d tuck us somewhere safe and sound, and Sal and Fischetti would just let that shit drop? And why do you think they were going to do you any favours, Ian? You don’t know anything,” Mickey said, “you don’t understand anything. _You don’t fucking know anything!_ ” he yelled as he sent half the contents of the dresser crashing to the floor along with a flutter of FBI card confetti. Mickey stopped himself and tried to take a breath before approaching Ian. “We’re going to forget this happened. You don’t see anybody, you didn’t say shit to anybody, and you’re not going to. We clear on that?” Mickey said before yanking the door open and marching out.

Mandy shrank away as he stormed past her in the passageway, trying to insulate herself from yet another kind of violent, emotional upheaval in her family. She peeked at Ian who was standing in the same spot, still and ashen, as he stared at the spot Mickey had just occupied. She stared down at the floor, but back up again when Ian spoke.

“You know, for someone who is so anti-snitching, you sure sold me down the river real fast.”

“Only an idiot would believe anything the Feds say,” she shot back, “we’re all the same to them. They’ll promise all sorts of shit to get what they want then hang us out to dry when they’re done. We don’t talk!”

“No, you just sit and wallow in this shit and say how badly you want things to be different while you shoot down every attempt to get you out of it,” Ian sneered and went to grab his backpack. “I thought you were a little better,” he told Mandy as he stalked past her, “but you’re all the fucking same.”

* * *

Hendricks yawned and tried to kick back a little in the cramped space of the surveillance van. Hernandez needed to get back with the coffee asap, because he was about to pass out from tiredness and boredom. The Milkoviches had to know where all the bugs were in the house, because all they ever got was inane, typical chatter and never anything remotely informative or entertaining except for Sal’s occasional coke rant and Linda’s cutting reads of her husband. Sitting on the Boerio estate was a thankless job. Before the ennui could overtake him, Hernandez appeared with the coffee and snacks.

“Anything?” she asked.

“Nope; you get my bear claw?” he said and took his food before something caught his eye. “Hey, Major Mickey’s on the move,” he said, watching Mickey walk out the gate and take a look around. He blinked as Mickey seemed to look right at them and turn in their direction. “Um, where the fuck is he going?” he asked, because it seemed Mickey was heading right for them. “Um, Hernandez?”

“Shit, you think he made us?” she hissed and the two scrambled to get to the rear of the van.

“How could he? We’re well hid—” Hendricks was cut off by Mickey pounding on the back of the van.

“Ay!” Mickey yelled while Hendricks and Hernandez shared a helpless look, huddled in the back of the van. “I know you fucknuts are in there, alright? No fucking North side flower van sits on its ass for three hours.”

Hernandez sighed and, summoning as much dignity as she could, smoothed her curls and opened up the back door. “Mr. Milkovich, what a surprise to see you here.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and eyed Hendricks who waved feebly at him. “Where’s Fowler?”

* * *

Agent Fowler was in the middle of enjoying his lunch at his favourite café when a fire-breathing Mickey Milkovich found him. Fowler set his tablet down on the table and smiled sunnily up at the young man.

“Mickel and dime, how’s it hanging?”

“You know,” Mickey said bluntly, “fine, so you know. You leave him the fuck alone. He has nothing to do with any of this. He’s clean, I kept him clean and you have nothing on him. So leave him out of this.”

“I’m going to risk making an ass of you and me and make a bunch of assumptions here,” Fowler said, “I’m guessing ‘him’ is Mr. Gallagher and the ‘this’ you want me to leave him out of are my ongoing efforts to thwart the destructive leech that is organized crime. Did I get anything wrong here?” he asked and Mickey only stared back at him impassively. “Look, I have zero desire to involve Mr. Gallagher in any way. He seems like a good kid: focused, ambitious, looking towards the bigger picture. He’s trying to keep his nose clean and get ahead and I admire all of that. I wish him nothing but the best and complete success in all his endeavours,” Fowler continued, “but make no mistake; he is a part of this. He’s not clean; not any more. He’s in this because of you,” Fowler said bluntly, making Mickey swallow convulsively while the blue eyes widened, “and he’s determined to stay in this as long as possible because of you. His very photogenic face is on a Polaroid on my white board directly beneath yours—and slightly to the right—and I will not hesitate to use the tools at my disposal. Now you have choices here and you have a say in how things can go down, but you do not get to dictate who is or who isn’t a person of interest in my ongoing cases. Mr. Gallagher, unclean and involved as he is, is officially such a person of interest and is now a known associate of the Outfit. If your intention was to have him be otherwise, then you failed, and I suggest revisiting the drawing board on that one,” Fowler concluded and then slipped back into his more cordial mode. “So, want a coffee, cake, something to nosh on? My treat!”

Mickey, now pale-faced, said nothing as he slowly backed away and retreated to his car. Fowler simply watched him go before waving down a server and freshening up his coffee.

* * *

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Alex said to her friend, looking at him through the mirror as she finished off her makeup.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Ian waved her off. “I just need to crash somewhere for a little bit, give Mick some space to cool down. I’ll just veg out on your bed and watch TV. You look hot by the way.”

Alex sniffed and fluffed her hair. “Bandage dresses are so 2014 but my ass looks great in this and I don’t intend to pay for any drinks tonight.”

Ian laughed, “does Dre know about your girls’ night battle plans?”

“I believe the last thing he said to me was ‘wear that red bandage dress. Your ass looks great in it and you won’t have to pay for a drink tonight.”

“Watch your intake tonight,” Ian warned, “Mandy is a Milkovich and the Milkoviches go hard.”

“Yeah, I realize,” she said and tottered over to drop a kiss on Ian’s forehead. “911 me if you have to and don’t get crumbs all over my bed.”

* * *

Instead of watching TV, Ian spent the next couple of hours staring at his phone, willing it to ring. It had remained stubbornly silent despite his best psychic efforts. “I swear to god, Mikhail Milkovich, if you don’t call me within the next fifteen minutes,” Ian murmured for about the tenth time. To his surprise, the phone actually obeyed this last directive and Ian scrambled to pick it up. “Yeah?”

“Where are you?” Mickey asked him.

“What does it matter?”

“Ian…”

Ian sighed, “I’m at Alex’s.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“In that case, I’m outside.”

Ian blinked and quickly rolled off the bed to make it to the window in record time. True enough, there was Mickey parked downstairs, hopelessly trying to pinpoint which of the curtained windows Ian would be hiding behind.

“Oh,” Ian said simply. Again, Ian Gallagher was no pushover. Mickey had overreacted and Ian fully intended to make him sweat it out a little. Two minutes seemed about fair.

“Ian…”

“Fine, I’m coming down.”

There was something about Mickey’s look that had Ian’s resolve crumpling even further. His boyfriend looked tired, defeated and distraught and Ian automatically reached for him. He cupped Mickey’s face in his hands and stroked his face. “I really wasn’t going to say anything,” Ian heard himself saying, “I wasn’t even going to say anything to you. I mean, I don’t think I would. It’s just that it felt like a lifeline, you know. I just wanted to feel like there was an out somewhere. I need you to believe that.”

Mickey searched Ian’s face and slowly nodded. “Yeah, okay,” he said before dragging Ian down and kissing him fiercely. Ian responded with equal passion until Mickey pulled back, breathless. “Just give me a little time,” Mickey murmured and Ian looked at him curiously. “I know what I need to do and I know I have to choose, but just—I’m asking for a little time… please.”

Ian nodded and pulled Mickey close. He would give Mickey time, though how much they really had, Ian could never know.

* * *

Waiting for Mandy at the Rub and Tug was proving to be one of the most fascinating moments of the year for Alex. The scene was wild to her—the best little whorehouse in the North side—where a mix of brazen, blasé and bashful customers mingled openly with the pros. Alex found a plush chair in a corner, took a seat and was taking in the whole scene. That is, until she saw Trish and she couldn’t look anywhere else after that.

To Alex, Trish was sultry poetry in motion. The only other person she’d ever seen so self-possessed and in such utter control of their sexuality was Ian when he was up in the lights in Boys Town. Just as Ian did then, Trish left Alex mesmerized. Trish was strikingly beautiful in a way that seemed unreal, and the silhouette of her perfect body beneath the thin, slinky robe made Alex’s eyes water. Everything about the prostitute seemed natural and measured all at once: from the way the shoulder of her robe slipped, to the way she tossed her hair to the way she laughed and touched the clients.

It finally occurred to Alex that both Trish and Ian were redheads, though she wasn’t sure if Trish’s was even natural. Shit, was that the trick to true body confidence—a dye job?! Alex must have dyed her hair every shade of the rainbow but red—a glaring oversight in retrospect. She twirled some of her blonde locks around her finger and kept watching Trish until a voice broke into her musings.

“How much for an hour with you?” the man asked.

“Ew, no, not for sale, move on.”

The man was immediately offended by the attitude. “Sit in a whorehouse looking like a whore and you’re going to get all high and mighty when you get taken for one?”

Alex’s eyes snapped to the man’s reddening face. “You want to know what torsion feels like on your balls, motherfucker? Move the fuck on before I end you.”

The man flushed crimson and sputtered, but stumbled off, especially when he spotted Mandy across the room flicking her ASP baton to its full length. Alex watched the creep go only to pick up a heady perfume and turned back to see Trish had wandered over to her.

“Hey,” Trish purred and took a seat on the arm of the chair as Alex’s mouth went dry and her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. “You’ve been watching me all night. Want some company?”

“Just a visitor, not a client, Trish,” Mandy said as she made her way over, though she paused to stare at Alex’s pinkening face. “Unless you do want a piece of this, but I know you’re on a budget and Trish is way expensive, even if we gave you a deal.”

“Ah no, no, I was just looking,” Alex croaked and immediately wanted to die. Both Mandy and Trish looked amused.

Mandy nodded at Trish, “you’re finishing up in a few, right? Me and Alex are going to hit the clubs later. Want to come with?” she asked leaving Alex panicked and gobsmacked.

“Sure, we can take my car,” Trish replied and sauntered off.

“VIP and everything comped with that one,” Mandy explained to Trish with a wink. “Try not to drool on her.”

* * *

Mandy hadn’t been kidding about the perks of being the wallflower to Trish’s social butterfly. Alex was used to passing easily as a hot girl and Mandy was a babe when she wasn’t hauling off and punching people for one slight or another, but Trish seemed to be in another galaxy. Alex and Mandy took a break in the VIP booth and watched Trish work the floor in a barely-there dress.

“She does not dance like a white girl,” Alex mused aloud with deep admiration.

Mandy snorted and downed another shot, trying to burn the bad taste out of her mouth that lingered from earlier. Fuck Ian for making her feel like dirt when she was only trying to protect her family and maintain the code that kept them all alive. Fowler and the Feds weren’t shit and none of them would be crying too hard if Mickey wound up with a bullet in the back of his head after they’d ripped her family apart. Whatever, fuck Ian, fuck Fowler, fuck Sal, fuck them all.

“Let’s go freshen up,” Mandy ordered and Alex slipped out the booth after her. Trish materialized next to them and together they invaded the bathroom.

Alex tried her best not to stare like a creep as Trish completed her toilette, but was caught anyway when Trish glanced at her in the mirror.

“You have amazing skin,” Trish said, surprising her. “I’m kind of jealous of it.”

Alex’s hand flew to her face. “You’re kidding, right? You’re perfect,” she gushed before either her brain could stop her or the earth could open up.

Trish shrugged dismissively, “everyone has their thing, mama. Breaking out like crazy is the least of my worries sometimes,” she murmured as she turned and examined herself in the mirror. She squeezed and lifted her breasts as Alex gaped. “Gravity is going to get these puppies really soon if I don’t start handling my shit,” she continued vaguely before rifling in her purse as Mandy re-emerged from one of the stalls to wash her hands.

Alex watched as Trish prepared a couple rails of cocaine on the bathroom sink, heedless of anyone who might be hovering around or coming and going. She took a hit and stepped aside for Mandy to share.

“You want some of this?” Trish asked casually as she checked her brows in the mirror.

Alex hesitated, “I usually don’t do anything stronger than weed and I’m already on a shit load of meds already…” she trailed off. Neither Mandy nor Trish seemed that interested in her wavering. “Fuck it, let me try.”

* * *

Dre was surprised by the sight of a classic, cherry-red Cadillac pulling up on his corner in the middle of the night. He watched curiously as it approached and went slack-jawed when the driver had the audacity to lean on the horn. Mandy popped up out the window from the passenger side.

“Dre, come get your bitch!” she yelled.

“Goddamned white girls,” Dre sighed and hopped off the wall to journey over. He flashed Trish a grin as he walked over to the car. “You’re a brave girl, pushing a Caddy like this in this kind of neighbourhood.”

“You like it? Daddy hooked me up.” Trish told him and Dre should have guessed this was Mickey’s doing. He looked in the backseat to see Alex curled up and out cold.

“She’s a fucking lightweight and the night’s still young,” Trish told him, “so we’re returning to sender.” She smacked Alex on the ass and the girl stirred, “you’re up, mama,” she said as Dre scooped Alex out of the backseat. “Stay gold, Ponyboy,” she yelled as a goodbye to Alex and pulled away from the curb with a squeal.

Dre laughed, shifted Alex a bit in his arms and nodded to one of his lieutenants to watch the corner. Alex snuggled closer to Dre’s chest and clung to his T-shirt.

“She’s amazing,” she slurred.

“Who, Trish? She’s alright, if you go for that sort of thing.”

That woke Alex up a bit. “Who doesn’t?!”

“Eh, she’s a little too slinky sexy for my liking,” Dre shrugged and tried to navigate his way into his building. “Too film noir femme fatale. I keep expecting the Maltese Falcon to fall out of her pussy.”

Alex was incredulous, indignant and a little amused and it came out in a weird, noisy half-laugh. “Ugh, you spoiled cis-man,” she burbled and swatted at Dre. “She’s perfect. She’s so certain. Ian’s so certain. Ian’s certain Mickey’s the love of his life, you know that? I don’t know anything for sure. Are you the love of my life?”

Dre squinted at the stairs and worked out the logistics of both the journey and her question. “Well, let’s see, you’re an uptight white girl from a well-to-do family and I’m an unrepentant drug dealer from the wrong side of some figurative train tracks. Are we in a Nicholas Sparks novel by any chance?”

“Pfft!”

“Right, no black people in those. Well okay, I think we can both agree that there are some deep, fundamental differences that will inevitably work against us sooner or later. As such it is highly probable that I am not your true love, but instead am just the dude you fuck around with until it’s time to amicably part ways.”

“Boo,” Alex moaned as Dre struggled with the door.

“Or, we could find that ours is a love that flies in the face of convention and realism and we’ll end up doing the chicken dance at our fiftieth wedding anniversary. Really, it could go either way,” Dre told her as he burst triumphantly into his apartment, carrying her across the threshold.

“I like the chicken dance one better,” Alex said, sighing in relief as Dre took off her heels, peeled her out of her bandage dress and put her in one of his large T-shirts.

“Yeah well, it’s not a lot of cases where doing the chicken dance isn’t the more attractive option,” he said and finished tucking her in. He smiled at her fondly as she curled up and went back to sleep. “Let’s just see how it goes.”

* * *

Mandy didn’t make it back to the pool house until well after daybreak. She stepped inside and out of her heels to find Ian zipping up his backpack and preparing to head out to work for the morning. They both paused and briefly stared at each other silently.

“Look, Mandy, I shouldn’t have said—” Ian began, but trailed off as Mandy turned heel and marched up the stairs without a word to him. Ian sighed and hoisted his bag onto his back. “Fair enough,” he murmured. He’d have to apologise later; right now he had to work a double.

Mandy was still smarting from the day before. Like fuck she’d stay and wallow if there were real alternatives out there. Ian was wrong; she wasn’t the type to shoot down real chances for change or escape, but she wasn’t going to effect fleeting change or try to buy her family’s temporary freedom by running her mouth to the cops. She was going to be proactive and smart, and run her mouth to her brother instead.

She found Mickey in his room, standing over an overflowing ashtray on his night table and staring down moodily at it, clearly deep in thought. Mickey only chain smoked like that when anxiety and worry was eating away at him. She wasn’t about to let her brother wallow either.

“Did Ian tell you about the time Sal tried to strangle him while you were out on a run?” Mandy asked and watched with a pounding heart as Mickey’s eyes snapped to hers. She knew she was standing on the precipice and about to start an absolute avalanche of shit. “Because he did,” she continued brashly. “He really, really did.”


	33. Thy Will Be Done

“Bullshit.”

Mandy shook her head and stood firm against her brother’s knee-jerk denial. “It happened; he did it.”

“Bullshit that happened,” Mickey repeated, “I would have heard about it.”

“The way Alex says it, Ian disappeared for about a week when it happened, told you he had to study or whatever. He swore her to secrecy, but get a couple rails of coke in her and bitch starts confessing to shit she did as a toddler. She blabbed the whole thing last night before she crashed out, along with the best tuck techniques. She can’t maintain for shit.”

Mickey’s heated denial was slowly morphing into confusion. “Sal would never—”

“Would never what, get physical with Ian like that?” Mandy sneered, “Why, because Ian’s different and so special to him? Ian is special to you, Mickey, and how you feel about Ian has fuck all to do with the way anyone else treats him. Sal supposedly worships you and how many times has he tried to put you through a wall? Shit, he loves himself more than anything and look how he fucks himself up,” Mandy said before turning to head into Ian’s room though not without one last parting shot. “Ian isn’t safe from Sal, Mick; no one is.”

* * *

The brothers were speechless when Mickey accosted them in the basement immediately afterwards. They stared helplessly at each other while Mickey waited for an answer. It was Jaime who finally hazarded an answer.

“It happened so fucking fast, sometimes I wonder if I imagined the whole thing,” Jaime admitted sheepishly, “I mean Ian dropping Sal is kinda unbelievable, right?”

“He made us swear not to tell you, Mick,” Iggy continued, “everything’s been so up in the air for a while now… it just seemed like a good idea not to tell you, you know?” he said nervously while Mickey just stared at them. “I mean, Ian handled his shit; he took care of it and Sal backed off for a while. We—We didn’t know how you’d react.”

* * *

Mickey was alone in the pool house when Sal came home a couple hours later in the mid-morning. The older man sat heavily on the couch, wrung out from whatever he had been up to the night before. He still appeared groggy, hung over and exhausted, but had no chance to rest before Mickey was quietly entering the living room from where he had waited in the kitchen.

“Sal?”

Sal jerked slightly at the sudden noise and blinked blearily at Mickey. “Fuck, you’re still here? I thought the place was empty and all of you had pissed off by now,” he grumbled. He had wanted to relax and sleep a bit, but relaxing seemed impossible with anyone else around lately. Everyone was a potential enemy; everyone set him on edge.

“I heard you tried to strangle Gallagher one time,” Mickey resumed softly, “that true?”

Sal frowned and wracked his brain to remember what Mickey was talking about. It took a moment to come back to him. “Jesus, that old shit? That had to be years ago. Is he bitching about that now, after all this fucking time?”

Mickey went still and stared at his haggard boss. “Why would you do that? Why would you put your hands on him?” Mickey asked, “I thought you said he was different from the ones before. How could you put your hands on him? How could you hurt him?” Mickey said, his voice still disarmingly low and soft.

“I don’t fucking know,” Sal snapped irritably. “Who remembers that shit? He must have pissed me off and I lost my temper. He’s got such a fucking mouth on him, that one, and not always in a good way. It wasn’t my finest moment, alright?” Sal said as Mickey stared impassively at him. He then sighed and ran his hands tiredly over his face and thinning hair. He stood up and came around the couch to approach Mickey. “Mick, you gotta—you gotta stop with this concerned, white knight shit you’ve got going with Ian, alright? I know you two are friends and you’re doing what you think is due diligence, but—” he said as he clapped his hands down on Mickey’s shoulders, rocking the younger man a bit, “It’s putting thoughts in my head, you know? Fucking crazy thoughts, just fucking crazy, and I don’t… I don’t want to have those thoughts about you, Mickey. Not about you—anybody but you, you know? So just cool it a bit with the questions and the concerns, okay? You—you know how I get.”

“Yeah…” Mickey said, nodding slowly, “I know how you get, Sal. I forget sometimes, but I know.” Mickey backed away from his boss, pulling out of his grasp. “I’m heading out for a bit, gonna pass by Dre. You need me to pick you up anything?”

Sal chuckled warmly, “see, now that’s the kind of concern you need to be showing,” he said while wagging a thick finger in Mickey’s face. “Yeah, get me something. Dre knows what I need.”

“I’ll be back soon,” Mickey told him as he headed for the door. “Don’t go anywhere.”

* * *

Ian returned home later that afternoon to a still and silent house. He tossed his stuff on the couch and went to sniff around the kitchen and basement for any signs of life. There was no one home. He grabbed his bag and headed upstairs, only to be taken aback before he even got to the top of them. He found Sal on all fours in the landing between the two bedrooms, whimpering softly and apparently searching fruitlessly for something.

Sal crawled back and forth, sweeping the carpeted floor with his hands as he whined pitifully. He was soaked with sweat making his stained, white tank top nearly translucent. Ian raised an eyebrow and finished ascending the stairs carefully, wary of what this display meant. Even at his most lucid, Sal was unpredictable. Who knows what he could be like in the middle of a drug trip.

“Sal?” Ian called out cautiously and Sal immediately froze, his back arching in a way not unlike a frightened cat.

Sal tried to turn quickly to follow the voice and wound up tumbling forward clumsily. He heaved himself onto his back so he could see who was coming and his eyes widened in fright at Ian’s approach. He tried to scramble backwards away from Ian and shook his head wildly.

“Diavolo!” Sal screeched as he rolled over and tried to crawl away to the safety of Ian’s bedroom.

Ian paused and snorted at that. One didn’t have to speak Italian to translate that. “I’m the devil now, really?” Ian sniffed, “this is just more redhead discrimination.”

He strolled into the room after Sal, causing the latter even more distress as he approached. Sal tried to get away but found himself stymied by the locked bathroom door. He huddled against it and clawed at it in desperation, his entire body trembling as he watched Ian with terror-filled eyes.

“Padre Nostro, che sei nei cieli, sia santificato il tuo nome,” Sal whined as Ian sat on the bed to watch him. The mobster clutched at the silver crucifix around his neck as if to try and ward Ian off.

“It’s not fun, huh—the shit your own mind can throw at you?” Ian mused out loud. He could only imagine the private hellscape Sal was trapped in while on this bad trip. There was schadenfreude there, but Ian was not entirely unsympathetic. He knew firsthand what it felt like to be a tortured prisoner of his own brain. As Sal shuddered through his prayers, Ian continued talking. “Why is it always the religious imagery do you think, with the demons and hellhounds and all that shit? You think it’s because we’re bad Catholics? Is that why we reach for angels to torture us?”

“Sia fatta la tua volontá, come in cielo, così in terra.”

“You should pray to St. Jude,” Ian suggested lightly, “he’s the patron saint of lost causes and souls. I prayed to him a lot when I was a kid and believed in all that. Prayed for Frank and Monica, and then for myself later on. Didn’t do shit for me; doesn’t mean you can’t try.”

“E rimetti a noi i nostri debiti. E rimetti a noi i nostri debiti. E rimetti a noi i nostri debiti,” Sal sobbed as he shook.

“I don’t know if I should leave you alone or not. Going through it alone is fucked up. I never wanted to be alone when it happened, but why would I want to put anyone through that? I just wound up feeling worse at the end. Then again, you’re seeing me as the devil now and you’re about to piss yourself, so I guess the answer’s obvious,” Ian said, but still didn’t leave. “I’m on my meds and I’m pretty even now, and my mind still generates all this fucked up shit. It’s scary sometimes thinking about all this graphic madness that’s locked inside you just waiting to come out. Like where does it all come from? At least my daydreaming is in a better place,” Ian said with a small smile.

“Ma liberaci dal male!” Sal yelled, waving a hand at a heedless Ian.

“I daydream about such boring things now, it’s incredible. Like having our own place and figuring out if we should do taxes together or separately… That’s what I dream about all the time, domestic bliss; that’s what gets me hard now. It’s kind of amazing if you knew who I was just a year ago.”

Ian trailed off as he was pulled out of his reverie by Sal’s sounds of distress. The fervent prayer had ended and Sal had slumped over onto the floor, gibbering incoherently and shaking too badly for it just to be fear. Ian slowly got to his feet, concern and uncertainty now taking hold.

“Sal, what’s happening? What are you doing?” Ian whispered to the seizing man. The possibility that Sal could die in front of him suddenly became very real and looming.

“What are you doing here?”

Ian nearly jumped out of his skin. He whipped around to see Mickey standing in the doorway, eyeing him questioningly.

“You’re supposed to be working a double,” Mickey continued, seemingly unaware that his boss was in the middle of a crisis on the floor. “Why are you back already?”

Ian stared at Mickey wordlessly, caught off guard by Mickey’s surrealistic disregard of the quivering, supine elephant in the room.

“I-I didn’t bother to work the double,” Ian managed to explain. “I was hoping to get back and talk to Mandy. I didn’t like the way we left things and-and I was hoping you and I could maybe spend some time together,” he said, automatically dropping his voice in case Sal’s cognitive functions were any better than they appeared to be right then.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” Mickey said, alarming Ian a little with his flat affect. Mickey finally looked down at his boss, whose eyes were rolling back as he continued to seize. There was Salvatore, still alive and kicking—quite literally. He was supposed to be dead already, felled by a massive overdose and yet here he was, stubbornly undead. The fucker couldn’t do anything right.

Sal sounded as if he was gagging and Ian’s alarm grew manifold. For all the times and ways he’d imagine Sal dying, he couldn’t have imagined it would be this ugly and terrifying. Sal’s distress was growing and Ian looked desperately at Mickey, only to find that his boyfriend wasn’t even looking at his boss but watching him instead, apparently gauging his reaction to the unfolding drama.

“Mick,” Ian whispered desperately, his face going white and Mickey moved into action.

“Call 911,” Mickey ordered as he dropped to his knees by Sal’s side and heaved his boss onto his side. He couldn’t make Ian a part of this. Mickey couldn’t imagine the ways standing there watching Sal die slowly and painfully would fuck Ian up. Behind him, he could hear Ian making the panicked emergency phone call. “How many of those nine lives do you have left, Sal?” Mickey whispered to his boss as he cradled Sal’s head and waited for the ambulance.

* * *

“I’ll be coming through kind of late,” Dre told Alex over the phone, “got to get to the hospital.”

“The hospital, oh my god, what is it?”

“It’s a big building with patients inside, but that’s not important right now,” Dre said and gave Alex the urge to reach through the phone to strangle him. “Gotta pay a visit.”

“Oh… someone got shot?”

“I’m going to visit my uncle who has the gout, girl. Come on now.”

“Oh,” Alex squeaked sheepishly, “sorry and, uh, sorry! I’m hanging up now!” she said before tossing the phone away in mortification.

“To be fair, we do have a bunch of people with holes in them laid up in the same hospital,” Drew reasonably pointed out to his little brother.

Dre was unmoved. “Be that as it may, it’s not helping the cause to perpetuate a stereotype now is it?”

“Says the black dude dealing drugs and dating a white chick,” Drew needled. “Not exactly Louis Farrakhan now, is you?”

“Man, shut up,” Dre grumbled, making his brother laugh as they headed for the hospital.

* * *

It seemed to take forever to get Sal stabilized in the emergency room and then admitted onto the ward. His overdose had led to a “cardiac event,” the doctor had told them, like Mickey was supposed to know what the fuck that was supposed to mean. He watched anxiously as Sal was set up in a private room—tubes, wires, and monitors everywhere, with Sal in the middle of it all, looking as pale and shrunken as Mickey had ever seen him.

Next to Mickey, Ian was literally wringing his hands. The casual onlooker would have thought he was simply distraught about Sal instead of caught—as he was—among several types of alien guilt. There had been a few times before when the intensity of his bloodlust had unsettled him, like when he got into a fight with Lip or got into it with Frank, or was well into the throes of a manic phase. Those moments had always scared him and he was relieved when he was able to pull himself back from the brink.

It had been different this time. Ian wanted Sal gone with a desire so pure and intense, it overwhelmed his conscious and subconscious minds and it never really bothered him. Yet, the opportunity had come and he couldn’t see it through. He had no doubt that Mickey had been watching him, gauging as to whether or not Ian had had the stomach to see it through and he had failed. If he hadn’t wussed out, Salvatore might have been dead now, and maybe he and Mickey would have been that much closer to freedom. Instead he had balked at watching the man die in front of him even while he actively rooted for his death. Honestly, Ian had no idea which aspect he should feel worse about.

As they stood outside Sal’s hospital room, he glanced at Mickey, who was staring at Sal and chewing his nails down to stubs. He had no idea where he stood now in Mickey’s mind, or what kind of penalties he’d just racked up. Ian stayed silent; this hardly seemed the time or place to whine about his insecurities about their rocky relationship. As if in answer to his thoughts, Mickey spoke.

“Go home,” Mickey said abruptly, his eyes not leaving Sal.

Ian panicked a little, unable to help but think that this was the beginning of his punishment for failing to be strong. “No, I want to stay,” he said quickly. “No one else is here and you shouldn’t be alone—”

“There’s fuck all you can do for me or anybody right now and I don’t want you here for this,” Mickey cut in, still not sparing Ian a glance. “Go home… I’ll meet you back at the place.”

Ian blinked rapidly as he absorbed the sting of the words, but said nothing further. He hesitated a moment longer before sighing and turning to leave. He exited the hospital in time to see Dre on his way inside. There was no way on earth this was a coincidence, so Mickey had kicked him out just to call for Dre? How in the hell was Ian supposed to take that?

“I see you, baby,” Dre nodded to him, sending a dazzler of a smile his way.

Ian was so intent on glaring at Dre as he passed, he hadn’t noticed that there was yet another Dre tagging along. The other was broader in the chest, harder in the eyes, and had his tattoos creeping up his neck. Drew clearly didn’t appreciate Ian’s glowering.

“What the fuck you staring at, Wonderbread?” Drew growled and Dre shook his head at his brother.

“Nah, he’s alright. Let’s go.”

Dre and Drew separated and headed off to different floors: Drew to their uncle and Dre to Mickey. Dre clicked his tongue as he came to stand beside Mickey and peered into Sal’s room.

“Drugs, man,” Dre sighed sadly, “it’s a fucking scourge, but what can you do? Oh hey, ran into Gingerbread when I came in. Boy did not look happy to see me, which continues to be baffling because I’m fucking delightful.”

“Yeah, well I’m not so fucking delighted with you right now either,” Mickey said.

“You trying to blame me for this shit?” Dre said, stretching and subtly checking around for eavesdroppers or anyone within earshot. “Nuh-uh, this is not a problem to be laid at my door. There was enough pure China White in that script to bring down a fucking elephant. Especially with my blend? Nah, either he didn’t take anywhere close to his usual dose, or one of a million other random shit happened, but my potion was on point.”

Mickey shook his head as he kept worrying his nails. “It was never going to work,” he muttered darkly, “it was a bitch move. It was a dumb, fucking, bitch move and it was never going to work.”

“It wasn’t a bitch move,” Dre said, “and it was the furthest thing from dumb. Yeah, you went at it in the heat of passion, but it was the best move available. I mean, who’s gonna blink if Salvatore OD’s, right? Shit, everybody and Jesus is waiting for the day it happens. Fucking genius is what it is.”

“Wasn’t going to be enough to bring him down; not Sal. He’s fucking invincible.”

Dre raised an eyebrow at Sal’s frail form before looking at Mickey askance. “Are we looking at the same motherfucker? Does _that_ look invincible to you?” Dre snorted and dragged Mickey away from the doorway to the open landing on the floor where they could stand before the huge windows overlooking downtown Chicago. “Look, man, I can tell you that overdoses are tricky as hell. You never know when an addict will drop. Sometimes it just takes one more hit, sometimes those fuckers will take the licking and keep on ticking. It was the smartest move, best way to cover your tracks, but at its core, an overdose is a fickle weapon to use. Salvatore isn’t invincible—lucky maybe—not invincible. Not even the gods are invincible and Salvatore’s no god, no matter what bullshit he’s been feeding you over the years.”

Mickey sighed and cast an anxious glance down towards the room as if he expected Salvatore to come strolling out, ready and rearing to go. Dre followed his look and shook his head.

“In my experience,” Dre continued, “where drug overdoses fail, two to the back of the head prove so much more effective. I guaran-damn-tee you the fucker won’t be walking away from that one.” Dre squeezed Mickey’s shoulder comfortingly and left Mickey to meet Drew at the other end of the passageway.  “How’s uncle?” he asked his brother.

“Down there acting mad niggerish with the nurses because the food’s got no flavour.”

“He’s in here with the gout! What the fuck’s he complaining about? He’s had too much flavour!”

“Yeah well, he wants us to go get him Popeye’s or something later, I don’t know. How’s our boy?” Drew asked, taking in the sight of Mickey staring forlornly out the window.

“Shook,” Dre said bluntly.

“Shit, I’d be shook too if I tried to take out a motherfucker with more lives than 50 Cent. Man’s luckier than a bitch.”

“You think so?” Dre asked, “because of you ask me, I don’t think Sal’s got much luck left,” he said and gave a sweeping glance of the surroundings. “Look around, man; ain’t nobody here. It’s been hours. Capo almost drops out, no wise guys coming around with those ridiculous desserts. His wife works in this hospital; where is she? Ain’t no love here, man; except for Mickey… and he’s the one that tried to take him out!”

Drew looked around the floor with fresh eyes. “Shit, you right. Man almost died and nobody’s checking for him at all right now.”

“He beat it this time, but I don’t think Sal’s got a lot of luck, time, or anything left, you feel me?”

“Sayonara Salvatore, huh?” Drew snorted, “Shit… he was one of our best customers too.”

“Yeah not gonna lie, back when, I was mourning that loss, but if Mickey’s says he’s gotta go, it’s time for him to go. Mick’s family and we always fuck with family. Besides, users like Sal are a dime a dozen; there are more rich bitches where he came from. He should have been gone ages ago.”

Drew nodded and eyed Mickey again. “You really think he’s gonna be the one to do it?”

“Shit, I don’t know,” Dre admitted, “but if he wants to be, he better act fast. I’ve got a feeling that there’s a long fucking queue forming.”

* * *

Mandy shot upright in the couch at the sound of the door opening. She watched intently as Ian slumped in. “Is he dead?” she asked breathlessly.

“No,” Ian said quietly.

“Shit, is he fucked up at least?” she growled.

Ian rubbed self-consciously at the back of his neck as he awkwardly stood a short distance behind the couch. “He, um, doesn’t look great. I think he had a heart attack or something.”

That perked her up. “Well, if anything it should slow him down a bit,” she said before looking at Ian more closely. “What’s with you?” she asked and made room for Ian on the couch. “You’re not upset that piece of shit nearly killed himself for like the thousandth time, are you?”

Ian came around and threw himself down next to Mandy. “No, I mean, I don’t know. I think… I think Mickey would have let him die if I hadn’t been there. I could be wrong, but that’s what I feel. And I wanted him to die, you know? Which I feel kind of fucked up about now, but I—I just couldn’t let it happen. The whole thing freaked me out and Mickey wound up helping him and getting him to a hospital… because of me. I just—I’ve been going on and on about him choosing and ditching Sal and then this happens and I blow it and… I’m so fucking stupid.”

Mandy softened as she watched Ian deflate miserably next to her. “Only in our fucked up world would you feel torn up about not being okay with watching someone die in front of you. It’s okay that you weren’t able to stomach it, Ian. You’re a good, sweet person—that generally makes you pretty bad at being indifferent to death.”

“Mickey’s a good, sweet person too, and so are you and so are your brothers… sometimes. After everything Sal’s put you guys through, I should be able to kill him myself, much less watch him OD. Mickey probably thinks I’m a pussy now.”

Mandy scrunched her nose and leaned forward to rub Ian’s arm soothingly. “No he doesn’t. He’s gay… he thinks you’re a dick,” she said, managing to coax a short laugh out of Ian. “This is the last thing Mickey’s going to be mad at you about. He’s been trying to keep you sweet and clean all this time after all.”

“I’m not some Boy Scout, Mandy” Ian murmured.

Mandy snorted and grabbed Ian so he could lie on her lap. “Poor baby, yes you are.”

* * *

Mandy had gone up to bed and left Ian waiting on the couch that night. When he heard the door open, he sat up uncertainly and watched Mickey’s quiet approach. “Everything okay?” he began hesitantly, “I mean, not okay, but um…”

“He seems out of the woods, mostly, but he’s got good insurance, so they’re gonna keep him under observation for a while and run every test known to man. They weren’t telling me a lot and I wasn’t really asking. I just made sure to find out if he’d woken up yet and if he was coming back tonight—no on both counts.”

Mickey yawned and made his way upstairs only to realize Ian wasn’t following. He paused and turned to look at Ian questioningly. “You’re not ready to come up?”

“Yeah, I mean… do you want me to?”

Mickey’s brow furrowed. “Ian, it’s been a long day, don’t get weird right now. Hit the lights when you’re coming up.” With that, Mickey trudged up the stairs. Ian stared before shaking himself and quickly scampering after him.

By the time Ian stepped into Mickey’s bedroom, the latter was halfway through shedding his clothes. Ian quickly began following suit. He eyed Mickey tentatively. “So, um, what was Dre doing there tonight?”

Mickey paused and turned around to face him. “Sal OD’d on his shit. Who else am I going to call?” Mickey asked before coming within arm’s reach and yanking Ian to him. “Are you still being weird about Dre?” Mickey asked teasingly. “You’re insane.”

“I’m not,” Ian said without much conviction. “I just thought maybe you were pissed at me and—”

“Why would I be pissed at you?” Mickey asked, looking confused.

Ian was starting to feel like he was being an exhausting child. He hated that feeling. “You’re still kind of hard to read sometimes,” Ian admitted with a sigh.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, you dork, not right now,” Ian sighed again. “Look, Mick, about what happened earlier… was it—was it just an accident with Sal overdosing, or did you…”

“Did I what?” Mickey said softly.

“Did you make it happen?”

Mickey didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he simply stared up at Ian for a while in the dark of the room. “What would you think of me if I did?” Mickey asked, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible.

Ian couldn’t decide if it was a relief or ridiculous that Mickey was just as worried as he was that there was something he could do to bring them to a screeching halt—that there could be a step too far. Ian didn’t say anything immediately; instead he stroked the side of Mickey’s face for a moment before pulling him in for a kiss. Mickey returned the kiss fervently, and as it deepened, Ian grabbed Mickey’s ass, lifted him bodily and tossed him onto the bed, making Mickey laugh breathlessly as his excitement spiked from the manhandling. Ian discarded the rest of his clothes and crawled into bed, sliding up between Mickey’s legs and settling over him. He stared down at his boyfriend and trailed a finger along the curve of Mickey’s jaw line.

“There’s nothing you could do to ever change the way I feel about you,” Ian told him thickly.

“Yeah, you say that now, but if I had to—”

Ian cut him off. “There’s nothing you could do to ever change the way I feel about you,” Ian stressed again. “And yeah, I can say that now and I’ll be saying it until I can’t say it anymore.” Ian then plunged his hands into Mickey’s hair and fisted it, yanking Mickey’s head back and making Mickey hiss and pant with the pain and pleasure of it all. Mickey arched against him, aching for more contact and desperate to be filled up. Ian held his hair firm and looked him in the eyes. “Now tell me what you did.”

Mickey looked up at him as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. “I chose you.”

* * *

Ian stirred first in the morning and pressed even closer to Mickey’s back so he could rub against him. He was hot and hard, and every shift and squirm Mickey made against his cock only revved him up more. He buried his face in the crook of Mickey’s neck and frotted harder against him, bringing his boyfriend into semi-consciousness. He could feel rather than hear Mickey’s chuckle.

“Again?”

Ian huffed softly into Mickey’s neck. It was a fair question; Ian had been pretty intense and demanding throughout the night before. The litany of hickeys, bites, and bruises on them both told the tale well. Still, memories of meals before were small comfort to a starving man. Ian rubbed more insistently against Mickey’s bare ass.

“This is all I need,” he murmured, relishing the heat and friction between them. It would be enough to get him off and he didn’t want Mickey getting sore on account of his insatiability. “This is perfect.” He reached between them and adjusted himself to squeeze between Mickey’s thighs.

Mickey laughed huskily at the move as Ian built his rhythm and rocked against him. Mickey reached for Ian’s hand that was skimming his thigh and placed it over his own filling cock. Ian quickly stroked him to full hardness in time with his own thrusts. Their moans and broken words mingled at the heat built and the pace quickened and soon Ian was coming between Mickey’s thighs just as Mickey was spilling into his hand.

“Ugh, gross,” Mickey tutted as they lay trying to catch their breaths.

“Yeah, because that’s the grossest thing that’s ever gone down between us,” Ian snorted and reached for the wipes on his night table. “And how come I have to do the clean up all the time?”

“Because I’m the one that’s always getting violated, you’re the one that’s causing all the mess, and you actually like cleaning up because you like to make it all sappy and creepy.”

Ian couldn’t really argue with any of that. Those were rock solid points. “Seriously, we’re gonna have a talk one day about the derogatory way you refer to the beautiful aspects of our lovemaking. You’re not being violated and I’m never creepy… now spread ‘em so I can get in there.”

By the time Ian was done and had crawled back into bed, Mickey was snoozing again. This was unacceptable to Ian, who jabbed the sleeping man a few times—hard. Mickey grinned again before slowly turning over onto his back.

“Your breath smells like ass in the morning,” Mickey pretended to complain.

“That would be your ass, so man up and deal,” Ian said before closing in for his kiss. He shifted until he was lying atop Mickey completely; weighing Mickey down the way Mickey loved. He was savouring the moment only for it to get blown to smithereens by an unpredictable force of nature. Their bedroom door flew open and all hell broke loose.

“Rise and shine, motherfuckers!” came the voice of god, and Ian scrambled off Mickey so quickly, he went tumbling off the bed.

Linda simply stepped over him and stormed to the windows to yank the heavy curtains apart. Powerful sunlight poured in to illuminate the scene and reveal two startled, panicking men who still weren’t entirely sure what was happening. They scurried to cover themselves and blinked at the figure framed in the sunlight.

“What the fuck?!” Mickey croaked as he gathered the sheets around him and Ian got up from the floor, trying his best to cover himself with his hands.

“Ugh, you can put some clothes on. I’m not in the mood for a peep show right now,” she said magnanimously. Ian and Mickey exchanged confused looks before they both rushed for their underwear and discarded clothes. They were soon standing uncertainly before her, bedraggled and confused, and waiting for the shoe to drop. Her eyes landed squarely on Ian. “Cousin Ian! Well this is a surprise. Bonding with your relatives? I don’t remember getting on half this well with any of my cousins… maybe if I lived further down south.”

“We’re not cousins,” Ian divulged. “We’re not related.”

“Well colour me surprised,” she said dryly before eyeing Mickey. “Jesus, even in this, huh? Boy, when you set out to emulate someone, you certainly don’t half ass it.”

“He’s gay,” Ian snapped, “it’s not a personality quirk or an acquired trait. It’s got nothing to do with Sal, and Mickey is nothing like him!”

Linda rolled her eyes back to Ian. “A tempestuous redhead… what a rarity. Simmer down, Opie, I’ll get back to you in a minute.” She turned back to Mickey. “Does Sal know you share… proclivities?”

“No,” Mickey said, “and I don’t want him to know. I just think it’s better that way,” he said, trailing off awkwardly and staring down at his bare feet.

Linda said nothing to that, but only stared at Mickey silently before swinging back to Ian. “So tell me, Cousin Ian, are you actually living here, under my roof, using up my facilities without my express knowledge or permission?”

“He needed a place to stay, so I told him he could crash here,” Mickey interjected.

“No, you didn’t,” Linda said, “not even you, with balls big enough to make you walk funny, would be that audacious.” She zeroed in on Ian again. “Does my husband know there’s a striking, young redhead living under his roof, who is as gay as the day is long, just like him?”

“Yes,” Ian said before Mickey could intervene.

“And if I told my husband that this young redhead was having the time of his life screwing the help while he was laid up in the hospital… would my husband take that well?” she asked him and Ian swallowed convulsively.

“No.”

“Are you fucking my husband, Cousin Ian?”

Ian stared back at her for a moment while her eyes bored into his. “I was… I’m not anymore.”

She had known—at least she had suspected—so why did the confirmation suck all the air out of her? She kept looking steadily at Ian. “So is it Mickey’s turn now? Are you working your way through the roster or is this supposed to be true love?” she asked bitterly and watched as the two bristled but said nothing. “And he moved you in here? Into my house? He really crossed that line?” she said, “and you... you had the unmitigated gall to just move in and fuck my husband in my house, under my nose?”

“Ian didn’t know what the set-up was like,” Mickey interrupted quickly, “he isn’t—”

“Do you notice that thing he does?” Linda asked Ian as she inclined her head at Mickey. “The way he jumps in whenever he thinks a lie needs to be told to make things go a little better. He does it all the time with Sal and now he’s doing it with you. I guess he’s trying to preserve your honour or something, or believes he’s a better liar than you or my husband,” she said and gave a short, humourless laugh. “I always found it strangely endearing, because—and you may have noticed this too—he’s a shit liar. But boy does he try.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian said quietly. “I knew Sal was married when we started, but it didn’t really matter at the time,” he admitted. “I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone, but I just wasn’t thinking of you. I wasn’t thinking about anything much beyond myself at that point. I’m sorry for what I did. I’m sorry I disrespected you and your marriage and your home. For what it’s worth, I haven’t been with Sal like that for a while now,” he said as he glanced guiltily at Mickey, “it’s just that me and Mickey just sort of happened and we’re just trying to make this all work somehow. But I’m still sorry… if I hurt you.”

Linda stared wordlessly at him as Ian hung his head and the room grew tense and quiet. She wanted to slap the piss out of him, to tell him to take his worthless apology and shove it. She wanted to claw at something, to scream, anything to stop the inevitability of the mortifying tears stinging the back of her eyes.

“You were right not to tell him, you know,” she said, suddenly rounding on Mickey, unable to bear the sight of Ian and all he represented anymore. “You were right to keep who you are a secret. God knows you can’t put anything past him. I imagine the temptation and the convenience would have just been too much for him, wouldn’t it? It would have been too perfect—you being the one to service all his needs.”

Mickey blanched and she felt her stomach roil at the words and thoughts. In the moment, she wished for both Mickey’s sake and her own that she hadn’t put that terrible image out there.

“Please don’t tell him,” Mickey said plaintively, “about me or us. Just… don’t.”

The tears were threatening in earnest, so instead of answering Mickey’s request one way or another, she shoved past the two men and stormed out of the room with the same suddenness and fury with which she had entered. She slammed the door behind her and Mickey ran his hands through his hair and sighed hopelessly to the heavens.

“She won’t tell him,” Ian said in a pitiful attempt to soothe Mickey and give him some balm for his ever mounting worries. Mickey didn’t even bother addressing Ian’s insane, groundless optimism. At this point, he was just too tired.

* * *

Mandy pulled back from her door as Linda barrelled out of Mickey’s room. She had also been roused by Linda’s noisy invasion and had been eavesdropping ever since. She cautiously stuck her head out the door as Linda fled down the stairs. She hesitated for a moment, staring at Mickey’s closed door, behind which Ian was undoubtedly trying to comfort Mickey by pumping him with dumb, hopeless assurances. A moment later, Mandy was taking off after Linda.

“Hey!” she yelled at Linda who was moving fast up the cobblestone path to the main house. “Hey!”

“What?!” Linda yelled back, swinging round on her pursuer.

The image Linda made gave Mandy pause. When was the last time she had seen Linda cry? Had she actually ever seen Linda cry, now that she thought of it? Despite the shock of it, Mandy was firm in her resolve.

“You’re not going to tell him right?”

Linda was thunderstruck. “What?!”

“You’re not going to tell him about Ian and Mickey, right?”

“Why the hell shouldn’t I?” Linda challenged. “They said it themselves, they weren’t thinking of me, so why should I think of them? Sal’s heart is almost fucking shot after all the drugs. Maybe one good shock will be enough to get him out of my hair once and for all. Finding out his precious general is fucking his boy toy might just be the shock to do it.”

“We’re not fucking pawns in this sick game you have going with Sal, lady,” Mandy shot back. “You can’t tell him anything. You owe us that much.”

 _Now_ Linda was thunderstruck. “Excuse me?”

“No, no, I don’t excuse you,” Mandy sneered, “you fucking owe us at least that much. For fifteen years you’ve done nothing but turn a blind eye to us while your piece of shit husband screwed us up and act like we were crap under your shoes.”

“My husband brought a bunch of filthy kids home like we were running some kind of Dickensian orphanage and I was supposed to be happy about it?” Linda shot back, “he had his own children, his own family that he could have been fucked about because we had minds of our own and didn’t think he was a Roman god. So he swaps us out for some kids from the gutter and I’m supposed to welcome you with open arms? What about the family he made?!”

“I could be fucked about that either, lady!” Mandy yelled, “You made a choice! You married that fucking psychopath and decided you were gonna sit here and make a life for him to shit on. We were babies! We didn’t have a fucking choice but to be here! We had nowhere else to go and no one else to turn to and this was the card we got! I’m sorry we got dumped on you, but you weren’t fucking Christmas for us either! We were kids and we needed help, real help, and you just sat there shielding your kids, quite content to let Sal fuck us in the head and use us however the fuck he wanted!” Mandy screamed at her. “Who we are now? What we do? That’s on you too, and you fucking owe us!”

Linda gaped at her while Mandy struggled to get herself under control. Mandy shoved her hair back from her florid face and hazarded stepping closer to Linda. “We kept a lot of your secrets too, Linda, and we did whatever you asked when you decided to stop ignoring us so you could order us around. Keep their secret, Linda, because if you don’t, then I’m not keeping my mouth shut about anything either,” Mandy warned her and turned back to head to the pool house. She paused for a moment and turned back quickly. “You know, in spite of it all, there’s a part of me that always respected you,” Mandy admitted quietly, stunning Linda. “I mean, thy way you held on and survived and still did good for yourself and your kids. You always held your own against Sal and handled your shit. You’ve always been your own person. In spite of everything, there’s that part of me that sort of still wants to be like a part of you.” Mandy glanced up at Linda to chance looking her in the eye. “Please don’t take that away. Don’t be a total disappointment like he is,” she ended softly and made her beat her own hasty retreat to the pool house, leaving Linda alone on the cobblestone path.

* * *

She found Tony in his greenhouse, pruning away at dead leaves with a surgeon’s skill and precision. He looked up when he heard her approach.

“I think I’m going to try again with my Laelias,” he told her. “I’ve been doing pretty well with everyone else; I think maybe I can keep them alive this time.”

“Sal’s probably going to get out in a few days,” she said as he kept pruning, “they’ll strongly recommend drug rehab and radical lifestyle changes—nothing he’ll be willing to do. Then in a few weeks, months, who knows… we’ll be right back here again.” She ran her hand over some of Tony’s Calla lilies and leaned forward to smell them while he watched her. “He’s fucking children now, did you know that?” she asked her lover, “an honest to god child whose soul he hasn’t managed to suck out completely. I’m surrounded by children trying to survive him and I let him run roughshod over all of them while I waited for redemption for us. I kept thinking if I was patient and I did my part, then someday my humiliation would end and somehow I would be restored—I’d be a good wife, a good mother, a doctor.”

“You are all of those things,” Tony told her, “you did the best you could with what you had, Linda. The failing here isn’t yours.”

“But it is… for being foolish,” she countered. “Last night I was paged that my husband was in my ER, suspected of having a massive overdose with complications. Everyone knew that was my husband, the addict. Everyone saw him for what he was… all I could do was hide. And now he’s fucking children in my home. Somehow he always manages to find a new low that I just could not foresee,” she sighed and turned to face Tony who still watched her silently. “Do you still want to free me, Antonio? Deliver me from all this mess?”

“You know I do.”

“Then do it,” she said with grim finality. “Because I can’t afford to sink any lower and I can’t see another way out of it. Do what you feel you have to, because I can’t take it anymore.” She took a shaky breath and shoved away from the shelf she was bracing up. “I’ll be in your room… I need a shower.”

He watched her go and waited until she was well away from the greenhouse before taking out his burner cell phone. His boss picked up after a couple rings. “I spoke to Linda,” he told Don Fischetti after he had greeted him, “… it’s time.” 


	34. Sayonara Salvatore

It might have been the most swiftly adjudicated meeting in Outfit history; gathered together in John Fishetti’s enormous kitchen and dining room. There wasn’t a single dissident in regards to Sal’s proposed offing. That it was long overdue was the general consensus among the Outfit hierarchy and only when it came time to discuss the method of execution was there any quibbling.

“I say we go there now and smother the fucker with his pillow,” Joe Cerone, another caporegime, proposed acidly.

“I’m loathed to kill a man in his sick bed,” Tony replied, “but that’s neither here nor there. There’ll be trouble enough for the Widow Boerio when this is all said and done. Do you really want to carry out the hit on her husband in the very hospital where she works?”

The men all murmured their understanding and concession to Tony’s point. It was then agreed that Sal would be taken out soon after he was discharged from the hospital, which should only be a few days more. Then they would play it in the way they deemed best. The matter of Salvatore settled, talk quickly turned to the consequences.

“We need to clean house,” Jimmy Lombardo, consigliere to the Don, rasped to the gathering. “We reopen the books—a new capo, a fresh crew… reward the ones who’ve towed the line and promote a few associates who’ve paid their dues. It’s Little Louie’s turn now, isn’t it? He’s been angling for capo for years.”

“What about the Milkoviches?” Tony asked, “How will we deal with them?”

“The consigliere said to clean house, so we clean house,” Cerone said. “What is there to consider here? Those snot nosed brats have been a bruise on our backside for years now; flaunting their fucking favour in our faces. I say we drop him and his little sycophants all at the same time.”

When the meeting concluded, Tony decided to address the Don and his consigliere directly. “What are we really punishing them for here? Sal took those kids from they were babies and made them what they are. Whatever they did, they did on his orders. We’re going to wipe them out for that?”

Fischetti shrugged. “An example’s gotta be made. We sat back and let that fucking buffoon run wild for so long, it’s going to take more than his blood to appease everyone. Letting those kids go would be a slap in the face of every man that’s maintained the code while Sal did his shit.”

“So we’re going to kill kids just because the family’s a little sour?” Tony said.

Lombardo shook his head slowly from his easy chair. “You want to be a leader, you need to know when to be firm, but you have to know when concessions must be made. They were kids when they came, but they aren’t kids any more. They might have suffered under Salvatore, but you can’t say they haven’t enjoyed a great deal of privilege there too. One could argue that they haven’t exactly been humble about their position either. The overwhelming majority wants them gone; what right do you have to let them walk?”

Before Tony could offer a rebuttal, the Don spoke. “Let’s say we forget that for a while,” Fischetti began, “let’s just be practical here. Like you said, these kids are Sal’s through and through. What’s to stop them from feeling sore about him getting bumped off down the line? They’re not friends of ours, they’re not part of our omertà, and what they know could hurt us.”

“By now they want Sal gone as badly as we do, boss,” Tony replied. “I don’t feel right about offing them. The oldest two have kids of their own for god’s sake. I’m not even sure the next two know how to tie their laces let alone know anything that could damage us. They were soldiers—good soldiers—they did what they had to do and obeyed when Sal gave an order. What would have been the right thing for them to do?”

“And what do you want us to do?” Fischetti asked him. “They can’t walk away from this, Tony. An example must be made and boys want more blood than Sal’s got to give. How do you think we should square this?”

“Split the difference,” Lombardo offered as he heaved himself out of his chair and made his way to the fridge for an orange. He peeled it with his fingers as the two men looked to him for clarification. “We have to make an example, not just of Sal, but also of the crew that supported him in this mess. We gotta send a firm message that we’re cleaning house and this type of shit won’t fly anymore, but—” he said, nodding to Tony, “—the thought of wiping them all out is giving you all this agita. So, split the difference and just cut the head of the snake and be done with it.”

“What?” Tony asked.

“Kill the kid, the main one, with the hair,” Lombardo explained.

“Mickey,” Fishetti nodded as Tony stiffened.

“Works, doesn’t’ it?” Lombardo continued and took a bite of his fruit. “He’s the brains of that little crew isn’t he—Sally’s right hand? He’s not a father, like the first two; not a retard, like the other two, and not a woman, like the sister. Perfection, capishe? This way the Milkovich threat is neutralized, the Outfit gets the blood it wants and everybody’s happy.”

“Yes, except for Mickey,” Tony gritted, “how the hell is that fair?”

“Fair?” Lombardo snorted, “who the fuck asked for fair? Fair doesn’t work here. What we’re doing is finding the best solution to best settle all parties. The kids can’t walk, Tony, so if you gotta better solution, let’s hear it.”

Fischetti laid a comforting hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Kill him or kill them all, but those are your two choices here. There’s no other way around this, Tony; they’re not friends. If his name was Michelangelo instead of Mikhail, maybe we could work something out, but either way, the kid goes. So decide who, if anyone else, is going with him.”

* * *

Tony’s thugs found Mickey while he was on his break outside the garage, heading to the corner shop to buy a pack of smokes. They must have been waiting for hours for him to emerge and they rolled up on him suddenly, screeching to a halt at his feet before he even had time to react.

“Get in, Tony wants a sit down,” the driver said abruptly. When Mickey didn’t move, the man rolled his eyes. “Kid, if killing you was the plan, you’d be dead already. Now get in the car and don’t waste anymore of our time.

Mickey stepped gingerly through Tony’s greenhouse until he found the man toiling away in a corner, transplanting some bulbs. Mickey stood uncomfortably, waiting for Tony to acknowledge and address him. He grew steadily anxious as Tony continued muttering to himself—or perhaps the plants—and Mickey cleared his throat loudly. If death was coming, he wasn’t about to stand around all day waiting for it. He straightened up as Tony looked around and finally got to his feet.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” Tony said lightly, “you could have gotten the drop on me.”

As if Mickey had some kind of death wish. He gave a quick, hesitant wave and immediately regretted it, quietly cursing his awkwardness. “You wanted to see me?”

Tony nodded and got right into it without any preamble. “Salvatore Boerio is a dead man,” Tony coolly informed the stunned young man. “That he’s still breathing at the moment is merely a formality. It’s a done deal, the decree came down last night and he’s finished. Any of that making you feel bitter?”

Mickey risked taking a minute to think it over. He was feeling a lot of things and it was hard to identify any single emotion. Bitterness, however, didn’t seem very prominent among them. Dread, maybe, a weird sort of resignation, but no bitterness yet. “Not really, no,” Mickey answered.

“Good, if that’s true,” Tony told him, “Sal’s that spilt milk that’s no use crying over. Still, that’s not why you’re here. Sal’s name isn’t the only one on that decree. Yours is there, and so is your entire family’s.”

Mickey felt the blood freeze in his veins. He went stock still and gaped at Tony openly. “All of us?” he asked when he could find his voice.

“All of you,” Tony said quietly, “it’s not something I agree with, but there’s little I can do.”

Mickey couldn’t even speak for a moment. Finally he croaked out, “so we’re dead then… just like that? All of us, even Mandy?” he continued, shell-shocked. “Why even call me here to tell me this?”

Tony shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t approve. While there isn’t much else I can do, at the very least I thought I could give you a warning.”

“But… why?”

“Because I was there that day when Sal took you home,” Tony told him, “because I didn’t try hard enough to talk him out of it, even though I knew what lay ahead. Because I was Sal’s right hand once and I know the impossible position he put you in. Because Linda has some affection for you, even though it confuses her and she doesn’t know how to express it. You don’t have many options, but I figured I’d give you a little time to explore them.”

Mickey could only blink, still in the middle of processing. “When?”

“That I cannot tell you, but you don’t have much time.”

The utter uselessness of this horrifying information quickly grated on Mickey’s frazzled nerves. “Then what the fuck am I supposed to do then?!”

“Run,” Tony suggested lightly, “that’s always one option. I don’t know how far you’d get, to be honest, and some of the boys will have fun hunting you down—Johnnie in particular, especially for that shit you pulled with his car,” Tony scoffed when Mickey’s eyes widened. “What, you think I didn’t know that was you? But he had it coming. He had no right coming to you with Family business and shaking you down to get to Sal. I told him to take that pill and swallow it, but he holds that grudge and a lot of others. Despite that, maybe you can manage to stay ahead of him.”

Mickey shook his head slowly. He doubted he would get very far, much less his family, who wouldn’t have a prayer. “We can’t run,” he rasped. “Jaime and Tony have families; they have kids. AJ’s got asthma for fuck’s sake. How are we supposed to run?” he asked aloud, though more to himself than to Tony.

“Maybe you should think about your own escape and let your family figure out theirs,” Tony said.

Mickey looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I’m not going to just take off and leave them! I’m the one that got them into this shit in the first place!”

“Kid, you gotta let that go. You were, what, eight? You didn’t see a whole lot of options then and you made a decision with what little information you had. “Your family came willingly and they stayed willingly. You’re doing no one any favours hanging yourself on the cross here. I understand that it’s family and nothing’s more important than family, I know. Yet there comes a time when a man has to stand on his own. Be smart about this.”

Mickey’s mind was now working feverishly. Yet still the logistics of a mass Milkovich exodus just wasn’t making sense. Tony broke into his thoughts again.

“You could try and snitch,” he said to Mickey’s surprise. “See really quickly what the Feds have to offer you, but then you’d be a rat, and I’d have to come down on you like a hammer. Still, might have a slightly better chance of survival than just running… who knows?”

Mickey stared at Tony steadily, the answer gradually dawning on him. “What if it was just me?” he asked and Tony raised a questioning eyebrow at him. “I mean, I’m the one that knows shit, I’m the one Sal let run things,” Mickey said slowly. “Mandy never had nothing to do with any of this ever, and my brothers just did what I told them. They don’t know anything more about the business than the average barfly at Sandrini’s knows.” Mickey nodded slowly, apparently sinking deeper into the idea. “You could sell that, right?”

“Think about what you’re really saying here,” Tony warned. “You make that pledge and you can’t get up the next day to change your mind. You’re a kid, Mickey; you should be thinking about running and trying to beat the odds, no matter how crazy.”

“But you can sell it, right?” Mickey repeated firmly. “You can’t tell me the Outfit’s that hot to kill a girl and a couple of dads with young kids. Iggy and Joey couldn’t harm anyone on purpose if they tried. I’d be enough if you sell it. You’re the freaking underboss… you gotta be able to sell it.”

Tony stared at him silently for a moment. “Yeah,” he said at last, “I could sell it.”

“Then we’d be square?” Mickey’s voice hitched as the enormity of what was happening began settling in on him, threatening to squeeze all the air out of his lungs. “Mickey Milkovich goes out with Salvatore Boerio and the rest of the Milkoviches are clear? No vendettas or accidents… you’d protect them?”

Tony gave a single nod. “I’d see to it.”

“Your word?” Mickey asked shakily and gnawed on his lip. He wasn’t exactly in the position to make demands, but a dead man didn’t have much to lose anyway.

“You have my word,” Tony affirmed, “if you do this, I’ll shield your family… but this is not the way I hoped you’d go, Mickey.”

“I got to take care of my family,” Mickey said softly.

“Greater love hath no man, huh?” Tony scoffed again.  “You may change your mind yet,” he said, though he had the sinking suspicion that Mickey’s mind was being set in stone.

“There was no one else, right?” Mickey hazarded, “just us and Sal?”

“We have no interest in Sal’s playmates or personal associates,” Tony said, perceptive to what Mickey was really asking. “It goes without saying that this conversation never happened. You say a word to Sal or tip him off and our agreement gets broken and it is open season on the lot of you,” Tony said ominously before sighing as he regarded Mickey’s ashen face. “Now you don’t have a lot of time, one way or another. How does a twenty-three year old go about setting his affairs in order?”

* * *

As it would turn out, Mickey didn’t have a clue. He had left Tony’s greenhouse on shaky legs, and his first instinct had been to shove everything out of his head, pick Ian up from work and drive as far as he could manage. Not long into the journey, Ian rested his hand on Mickey’s thigh and stroked it soothingly, noting that something was clearly wrong given Mickey’s wound-up silence and the way he sped through the open streets.

Unlike the other times before at the start of his journey, the noose didn’t loosen up as Mickey cleared the city. Instead, the more he drove the tighter it got, the same way it always did when he felt as if he’d driven too far. Instead, as night fell, he pulled into that same open lot on the small hill overlooking the sports field. They parked beneath the same huge tree and they sat on the ground underneath it—Mickey leaning back against Ian, allowing his boyfriend to hug some life back into him.

Ian didn’t ask what was wrong, knowing he most likely wouldn’t get a straight answer when Mickey was like this. Instead, he hugged him close and crossed his legs at the ankles on top of Mickey’s, silently coaching Mickey’s breathing down to a quieter pace. Mickey eventually stepped back from the brink of panic and surprised Ian with a question.

“You never told me what my job was,” he began, “in that magical world you created where I wasn’t a henchman.”

Ian paused for a moment, unsure if Mickey was making fun of him or not. “You’re a mechanic,” Ian said at length, “classic car restoration.”

“That’s it?” Mickey asked, surprised, “just a mechanic? You’re satisfied with just that?”

Ian was affronted. “What the hell is wrong with being a mechanic? I think it’s amazing. You take worn out, broken down things that a lot of people can’t see any worth or potential in and you make them beautiful again. It’s what you do; it’s who you are, and I love that.”

Mickey said nothing, though warmed by the words, and looked up askance at his boyfriend. “You’re not going to burst into song or something, are you?”

“Won’t lie, I was feeling that vibe, but if you’re going to be a judgemental dick about it…”

Mickey laughed out loud as Ian sniffed indignantly. “What were you going to sing?”

“Nope.”

“Come on.”

“No, fuck you, the moment is gone now,” Ian said, holding firm. “Now shut up and let’s pretend we can see stars out here.”

Mickey grunted in agreement and regretted that he had lacked the willpower to drive further until they could see stars. He regretted lacking the willpower to just keep driving until they were well beyond the reach of everything, but could they ever get that far? Instead of dwelling on the sobering thought, he looked down on the field below.

“Have we ever done it in the dugouts before?” Mickey asked, squinting as he recognized the baseball diamond at the far end of the field.

“No,” Ian answered, following Mickey’s thoughts and eyes. “It does seem like a bit of an oversight now that I think about it.”

They both sat still and silent, mulling it over for a second longer before scrambling to their feet and racing downhill to jump the fence; praying the whole time security here was as nonexistent as it was in the Southside.

* * *

Ian slapped his alarm off before it could wake Mickey. He sat on the edge of the bed, yawned tiredly and tried to get his blood pumping a little. There was that moment of self-assessment, where he tried to figure out if he was dragging so badly merely because he was still so exhausted from the night before, or it was a signifier of the start of a low stretch. He had yet to meet a prescription that could completely suppress the symptoms of a manic or a depressive phase, and these moments of uncertainty always filled him with anxiety. He was just tired, he told himself, but was still relieved by the way his mood instantly lifted as he felt Mickey’s hand trail up his back.

“Don’t go to work today,” Mickey said thickly, still half asleep. “You’re working all these doubles; they can spare you for a day. Tell them you’re sick.”

“I’m sick?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded and smiled sleepily, “tell them you’ve got Mickey-mania or something.”

Ian laughed and slid back into bed so he could lean over Mickey. He brushed Mickey’s hair out of his face and looked down inquiringly at him. “You’re been kinda cute right now. What gives?”

“It’s just that I don’t know how much time we have left,” he said before smoothly covering when Ian raised an eyebrow at the cryptic beginning, “I mean Sal will probably be out of the hospital any minute now, and who knows how he’ll be when he gets out. This could be the last bit of our holiday.”

Ian could see the merit in that. He leaned down to kiss Mickey softly and suck briefly on his lower lip. He then grabbed his phone and rolled off the bed. “Alright, but I think I’m going to go with something a little more convincing than ‘Mickey-mania,’” he said as he headed to the bathroom where he could convincingly pretend to throw up in the middle of his conversation.

“You should use it!” Mickey encouraged him, “it’s a valid condition.”

“Sure, I bet there are dozens of us Mickey-maniacs out there.”

“You get chills,” Mickey said as he watched Ian pad to the bathroom, “and you can feel them multiplying.”

“God, shut up.”

“And you lose control,” Mickey continued, defying Ian’s massive eye-roll, “because the power I’m supplying is electrifying.”

“Why do I keep having sex with you?” Ian sighed and closed the door behind him with a click.

Mickey settled back in bed and rubbed his hand over his face. He had no idea how much time there was on the clock, but he prayed he could ignore the inevitable for at least one more day.

* * *

He finally let Ian go to work the following day, but Mickey still found himself at sea about what his next move should be. Anxiety clawed at him, scraping away from beneath the surface of his skin as time ticked by loudly. He found himself on a Southside rooftop with Dre, smoking stunningly strong weed and marvelling at how quickly the sun was setting and how the summer had simply rushed by in a warm breeze.

“What do you think happens after someone drops out?” he asked Dre suddenly as he contemplated the dying sun.

Dre wasn’t startled by the sombre question. He had fielded his share of strange questions during a smoke session and asked quite a few himself. He took the blunt from Mickey and inclined his head as he thought over the question. “Well, the way we have it, the ‘I’ is eternal.”

“The eye?”

“Nah, the ‘I’ the subject, as opposed to ‘me’ the object,  I and I is just me, or you, and our intrinsic connection to the universe which is eternal and unbreakable, you feel me?”

Mickey coughed out a plume of smoke and stared at Dre like he was personally bringing on the worst headache. Dre decided it was best to try and rephrase.

“All I’m saying is that the belief system of which I am apart, holds that the soul or whatever is eternal and that death is both sort of real and a fallacy all at once.”

“And you really believe that?”

Dre shrugged, “I believe energy is neither created nor destroyed for real, and that kinda jives with it, right? The body dies, but the part of us that makes us… us has to go somewhere. Maybe that essence just gets released back into the universe, I’m figuring we get recycled.”

“So… reincarnation then?”

“Makes as much sense as any of the other shit they expect us to believe.”

Mickey nodded and sunk a little further into his seat. “I never really used to give a shit,” he admitted quietly, “life’s cheap, you know? It happens, it happens; wasn’t like there’s fuck all I could do about it, especially growing up in the Outfit. You learn not to be scared of it.”

“I feel that,” Dre said. “Like every morning you have that little thought where you think is this the day some motherfucker lays me out? You think it, but you put it aside and you step out anyway because it is what it is, you know? It’s kinda weird to me when I meet someone who doesn’t think that way. Like I love listening to some of the shit Alex worries about. I mean it’s real and it’s valid and it’s heavy for her, but it’s so far removed. It’s fucking mental.”

“But it’s beautiful, right, how different they are?” Mickey mused.

“Yeah, it really is.”

“It’s been making me think lately,” Mickey admitted, “I mean it hasn’t changed—if it’s time to go, it’s time to go—but I’ve been thinking lately if there are things we can take with us. I wouldn’t have a problem going if I knew I wouldn’t forget Jaynie’s dumb drawings, or Mandy always taking our shit, or the way his laugh sounds,” Mickey added quietly, “I don’t want to forget the sound of his voice… or that we ever happened.”

“And you don’t want to be forgotten,” Dre added, “because that’s the bitch of it, isn’t it? You drop out and it hurts for a while, but this big wheel keeps on turning and memories fade and everyone just goes on and you wonder if you even existed or mattered at all.”

“Yeah.”

The two went silent and watched as night fell around them. It was Dre who broke the contemplative silence after what felt like an eternity. “Fuck, I don’t know, man. I don’t know if we can take shit with us and we can’t swear for a motherfucker’s feelings but our own. Maybe they’d miss us forever, maybe they’d forget us the next day, but fuck all that. I’m sticking around in the known, here on terra firma, for as long as fucking possible. Death doesn’t scare me, but I’m in no fucking hurry to meet it and I will not go quietly into that good night, you feel me? I’m making all the memories. Let’s see them forget about Dre.”

Mickey burst out laughing before settling down to smiling and shaking his head at his friend. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

“Bitch, you asked.”

* * *

Salvatore Boerio was discharged from the hospital against the medical advice of his attending physician. He signed the paperwork and painfully shuffled out. He had refused to call anyone to pick him up either, too shaken and paranoid by his recent crisis. He was almost certain that any car that showed up would have a bomb strapped to the bottom of it. He slowly made his way outside and flagged down a taxi.

* * *

The worst part of it, Mickey figured, was not knowing when the shoe would drop. All Big Tony had said was “soon” which was absolutely terrifying in its vagueness and left Mickey feeling hamstrung. As uncertain as he was about the end date, the moment he stood at his window watching Sal, all white and winded, struggling to get out of a taxi outside the pool house, Mickey instinctively knew that the countdown had started.

He had slipped off the property before Sal had spotted him. He needed more time and he knew the closer he was to Sal, the more likely the possibility of catching a bullet then and there. He headed to the Rub and Tug, for where else to earnestly begin getting his affairs in order but at the whorehouse that would probably wind up being his sad legacy? It was there, as he stood in the middle of it trying to catch his breath, the room swimming around him and his heart pounding, that confirmation came from an unexpected, yet unsurprising source.

“Daddy?”

Mickey closed his eyes and sighed. If Big Tony didn’t kill him, these girls would do it eventually anyway. “Trish, why?”

“Can we talk?” she asked him softly and he could hear the alien vein of tension in her voice. He looked at her curiously and nodded. She led him into the study and closed the door behind them.

“Pregnant?” he asked her bluntly and watched her nose wrinkle delicately, “VD?”

“Ew, no and no,” she sniffed disdainfully, “I heard something I thought you should know,” she said. Mickey perched on the desk and nodded at her again. “You know this guy… Trigger?”

“Trigger DeStafano?” Mickey asked and she nodded. “Johnnie Boy’s right hand; yeah, I know him.”

“I was with him last night,” she started to explain, “he got pretty drunk and sloppy and he was talking a lot—a whole lot. Most of it sounded like nonsense that I really couldn’t work out, but he was telling me how I should be nice to him because he was about to move up in life real soon. He said something about the books reopening? That he might even make capo when the dust settles. What does it mean when the books reopen?”

It meant that there would be room in the Outfit for more made men to be sworn into family. Mickey had a fair idea of how the spaces were about to be opened up. Mickey ignored her question and prodded her further. “What else did he say?”

“He said they were going to take care of that fat fucking fa—” she cleared her throat, “um, he gave some strong clues that they were planning to off Sal. That’s your boss, right?”

“Did he say when?” Mickey’s voice came out in a strained whisper.

“Sunday,” she said and Mickey felt the cold, heavy boulder drop into the pit of his stomach—six days. “He said Sal called from the hospital and asked for a sit-down with the higher-ups to clear the air or something. They’re just going to do it then.”

Mickey almost laughed out loud. Sal would go running to meet death halfway. After Mickey had nagged him for ages to contact Fischetti and kiss the ring to buy them some time, now Sal finally listens and it was only going to end up killing them sooner. Trish stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on his arm.

“Sal’s your boss and they sound so pissed at him. They’re going to kill him, Mick. What does that mean for you? Are you going to be okay? Are you in trouble?”

“You say anything to anyone else?”

“No, but—”

“Don’t say a word of this to anyone else, alright? Not Svetlana or Mandy or the other girls—anyone, alright? Please,” Mickey said before trying to reassure her, “everything’s fine, but Trigger can get into real shit running his mouth like that and I don’t want you catching heat for it. Just be quiet and don’t worry about anything.”

Trish seemed unconvinced and she stared at Mickey, her brow furrowed, but she eventually nodded. She hesitantly exited the study, leaving Mickey alone with his thoughts. He ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. At least now he had a date and a time frame, but he had been wrong about one thing. Not knowing wasn’t the worst, because compared to actually knowing your execution date, ignorance was fucking bliss.

* * *

Sal squinted into his rear-view mirror as he navigated the busy street. He was almost sure he was being tailed. He squinted again, trying to discern one car from another, but it was hopeless. Back in the day, his instincts were better; he could spot his tail in a second. He had passed on that skill to the boys and in doing so had apparently lost it. He groaned and twisted around, trying to make out anything in the rush of traffic as his paranoia built.

He was shit at driving himself. He needed either Mickey or Iggy, but he had yet to see a glimpse of Mickey in the two days he’d been out, and he didn’t trust Iggy to keep him alive during crunch time. He chose his cars randomly, hoping to throw any predators off his scent. He leaned forward over the steering wheel and stared out to see if there were any helicopters hovering over him, and he could almost hear Linda cackling in his ear.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Ray Liotta?!” he imagined she would say, “you think anyone would waste a helicopter on your worthless ass?!”

“Bitch,” he responded to his imagined aggressor beneath his breath, irrationally afraid she’d hear him somehow if he dared say it loudly enough.

He rubbed his nose and nearly side-swiped a car as he kept going. The blow in his system was certainly not helping matters on any level. The doctor had warned him that his heart was close to being shot and had gone on to list an endless number of things wrong with his carcass. Sal was unmoved by the dire portents rained down on him. Fuck all that noise; that shit had nothing on sobriety.

Drugs weren’t killing him, reality was. As far as Sal was concerned, being sober was the worst, as was the self-awareness that came with it. When he was sober he could see himself, he could hear himself, smell the way his favourite cologne reeked when it touched his skin. Each time he was sober it became more glaring evident that he had Peter principled himself into a position he had no business being in and surrounded himself with people and property he had no business having. Worse was the growing realization that he had no clue how to keep a grip on it all. He should never have approached Linda and Ian—Jesus, Ian—he should have left him in the glass case. Ian was probably fucking half the twinks in Boys Town in the very bed Sal had provided and was laughing about it behind his back.

At least when he was under that haze, shit managed to keep chugging along and he didn’t have to wring his hands wondering about how it happened. So physician’s warnings or not, the first thing Sal had done was wobble to the nearest dealer and get rid of pesky reality. Or at least he tried. He was so on edge and the drugs only heightened the feeling. He whipped around frantically again, and this time he swore he caught a glimpse of something.

It was the fucking Feds—those dumb suits and glasses were a dead giveaway. Who did they think they were, the fucking Men In Black? Sal’s heart thumped painfully and adrenaline coursed through him. He couldn’t even feel relieved that it wasn’t his fellow mobsters coming at him with death in their eyes, for this didn’t feel like the typical FBI tail. They were coming for him—it hit him with a thud. They were just waiting for him to get to quieter streets to take him down. His brain shut down and panic set in, and all the chemicals in his body screamed “GO!” Before he could process what he was doing, Sal’s foot turned lead on the gas pedal and he peeled off with a screech and the smell of burning tires.

Agent Hendricks was dumbfounded as he watched Sal careen away. He picked up his radio and hailed Hernandez. “Are you seeing—is this bitch running?!” he asked incredulously. “This bitch is running.”

“Oh thank god,” Hernandez said as she shifted gears in her car, “for a second I thought he wasn’t going to make this interesting.”

Next to her in the passenger seat, Agent Fowler was quickly getting nervous. “Now hang on, I don’t think we—argh!” he was cut off as Hernandez hit the gas and tore after the fleeing mobster. “Look, he’s an old man that just had a heart attack, I don’t think this is entirely necess—ack!”

Sal felt himself spinning out of control on almost every plane of his existence. The Feds were keeping on him, though they weren’t making any really aggressive moves just yet. He knew they were waiting for him to turn onto quieter roads with less traffic and fewer possibilities for civilian causalities and he was loathed to play into their hands. Yet he could see no way around it. He didn’t have Iggy’s or Mickey’s offensive driving skills or reflexes and the longer he stayed on the high traffic streets, the sooner he was going to wreck himself even without federal intervention. Fighting to keep control of the car, Sal groaned with disgust and swung onto a side street, several Dodge chargers at his back.

Hernandez was on his tail until she suddenly veered off onto another side street, tossing her boss around like a ragdoll, and leaving the other FBI vehicles to continue their pursuit. About two minutes later she was squealing back out onto Sal’s street again, this time ahead of him. She spun the car around, slammed on the brakes and exited her vehicle with her gun drawn.

Sal had been so focused on the cars chasing him, he missed that there was now a roadblock before him. By the time he spotted Hernandez, he was almost on top of them. He gasped and hit his own brakes with both feet, leaving vivid skid marks in his wake and the smell of rubber burning in the air. His car stopped mere inches from the blocking vehicle, nearly giving Sal and Agent Fowler—still sitting in his vehicle—identical heart attacks. Hernandez was unblinking and unmoving despite the close call and kept her gun levelled at Sal.

“Get out of the fucking car!” she ordered as the rest of the pursuing vehicles hemmed Sal in on all sides.

The brief chase was over and Sal would be lying if he said he wasn’t relieved. Still, he couldn’t resist one last shot of defiant bravado. He kept his hands visible, but leaned out the car to yell to his old nemesis. “Fowler, what’s with her? This bitch on the rag or something?”

“Man, get out the car before she shoots you,” Fowler huffed as he smoothed himself over.

Sal was hauled bodily out the car and roughly patted down. “Hey easy, I’m an old man here,” he chastised Hernandez. “You want to tell me what this is all about?” he said, once again directing his question at Fowler.

“Tax evasion, Salvatore. Always tax evasion,” Fowler answered. “Word of advice: if you’re going to cook your books, make sure they’re well done.”

Hernandez and Hendricks exchanged a long-suffering glance and an eye-roll as they hauled the mobster to a waiting vehicle. Not even Sal was unaffected by the wordplay.

“Jesus, just tell me he doesn’t have a fucking puppet show waiting for me back at the place,” Sal moaned. Fowler shoved Salvatore into the back of the car himself. Everybody was a critic.

* * *

“Well that was exciting,” Trigger drawled around his cigarette as he and his partner watched Sal get carted off. They had been tailing Sal since they learnt about his discharge from the hospital, but had fallen off when Sal picked up his FBI detail. They had followed everyone from afar off and watched the chase wide-eyed. Trigger tossed his cigarette out the window and nodded to his companion. “Call Big Tony.”

* * *

Fowler’s team stood outside the interrogation room, watching through the one-way glass as Fowler put Sal through his paces. Mueller tapped Hernandez’s  shoulder. “You’re going to assist,” she told Hernandez. “Wait until Fowler gives you the opening then take point from there. You know the objective.”

“Me?!” Hernandez almost squeaked.

“Salvatore doesn’t do well with alpha females,” Mueller said, “and he’s easy practice for some of the much tougher ones we’ll get down the line. Go rattle his cage.”

“So am I under arrest or what?” Sal sniffed and raised a sceptical brow as Hernandez joined him and Fowler in the room. “I know my rights and you can’t keep me here.”

“Can’t we? Are you sure?” Fowler asked him dryly, “do you have even the vaguest idea what your real constitutional rights are and the power we actually have right now in detaining you; especially post 9/11?”

The questions ate right through Sal’s confidence. He actually didn’t have the slightest idea anymore. It had been a while since he was directly in the line of fire, and even back then when he had more pull, it was a swirl of lawyers and confusion. He blinked dumbly at Fowler, visibly cowed and confused.

“We just wanted to talk,” Fowler said smoothly, before one of Sal’s few working synapses reminded him of his right to counsel, “but then you had to go all Wild West on us. Then again we can skip the foreplay and get right to the arrest if that’s what you’re after. We’ve got you dead to rights on the tax evasion.” Fowler placed a sheaf of papers before Sal. “You’d think after Capone you guys would figure out a way around that.”

Sal made a show of shuffling the papers and poring over them. He didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to be looking at, but he did eventually recognize a name that chilled him. “Saul?! You fuckers have him after all? My Mickey thought you might have him. That fucking rat Jew fuck.”

“Once he started  the ball rolling, it wasn’t hard for our forensic accountants to unearth the rest,” Fowler told him. “You really should have hired a new accountant after Saul went off the grid, Sal. Your books were a damned mess in the end.”

“Yeah, well, what the fuck am I supposed to do about that now?”

“You’re going to die in prison, Salvatore,” Fowler told him pointedly, “by the time we finish unravelling this thread, with all the extras the federal prosecutor is going to pile on for good measure, you’re going to die in prison. At best, a compassionate release for when you’re in the advanced stages of your inevitable decline. You’re never going to enjoy the outside again.”

Sal swallowed hard as the cold truth washed over him. He stared helplessly at Fowler as the tension grew and hung in the air, only for Hernandez to chime in.

“But you’ve gotta know that we don’t give a shit about you,” she said and Sal gaped at her. “We can take you or leave you, Sal. What we’re interested in are the big dogs,” she told him and stepped away from the wall to lean on the desk and drive the dagger in, “you know, the ones that really matter.” She shrugged as Sal glared at her. “My boss wants to roll you,” she continued, “but I’ll be honest, I don’t see the point. Do you even know anything?”

“You can go fuck yourself,” Sal hissed, “you think I don’t know shit? You think I ain’t somebody? I know what I know, but I’m not saying shit to any fucking pig.”

“Ugh, yeah, I’m sure you’re just a steel vault of secrets,” Hernandez withered, “don’t say anything. Stick to the code and protect the same guys who can’t wait to get rid of you. Have you even seen the inside of a prison lately? We have a betting pool going about how long you’ll last. Popular bet is two months; I say one.”

“You don’t know me,” Sal began.

“And I don’t want to know you, but I know enough,” she shot back. “You won’t make it. You think you’re going to hack it in Club Fed? This isn’t the seventies anymore. We are going to put you in the deepest, darkest hole we can find and leave your worthless, schlubby ass there. No Mickey, no Milkoviches, no help. Just Salvatore Boerio, alone, in all his inept, one stooge glory. Now do you really think you can hack it, Salvatore?” she said towering over him, “do you?”

Sal could feel the sweat prickling at the back of his neck and dampening his forehead. If this bitch was any more vicious, he would have been inclined to marry her. He swallowed again and balled his fists so hard, his nails bit hard into his palms. He couldn’t hack it in prison. He couldn’t hack it anywhere.

“What do you want?” he rasped.

“What do you have?” Fowler asked.

“I can give you things,” Sal said quietly, “on everybody, on all of them. They act like I’m nobody, like I ain’t worth shit, but I know things. I know where all the fucking bodies are buried. But I want protection.”

“For whom?” Fowler said.

“For me, for myself,” Sal replied, looking at Fowler askance. “Who the fuck else is there?”

* * *

Salvatore was allowed to go home approximately five hours after he’d been detained. When he stepped back out into fresh air, Trigger DeStafano was one of the first to spot him.

“You think he saw the inside of a cell, Petey?” Trigger asked his partner.

“You know he didn’t.”

“Now what are the odds that fat faggot is a stand up guy?” Trigger said as he watched Sal get into his released vehicle. “You think he kept his mouth shut; kept the code?” The two men exchanged a knowing look before Trigger reached for his phone again.

* * *

When Sal returned home, he finally found Mickey waiting for him, sitting at the kitchen island, silently smoking away. Mickey looked up as his boss shuffled his way into the room.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Sal asked first and made his way to the fridge for a drink.

“Been out taking care of some things and settling some stuff,” Mickey said vaguely, watching his boss for any and every tacit clue. “Why didn’t you call me to come get you? First I heard you took yourself out of the hospital and grabbed a taxi home. Next thing is that the feds nabbed you.”

“You heard all that?” Sal asked him and sat across from Mickey at the island.

“Everybody’s heard it, Sal. High speed chase and everything,” Mickey said, and eyed Sal closely, “how come they let you out so fast?”

“They didn’t have shit on me,” Sal replied. “They tailed me, chased me down, tried to shake me down and scare me and they didn’t have shit. I have to report to court about the chase thing though—will probably have to pay a fine or some shit; some points off my licence. But you should have seen it Mickey,” Sal puffed up proudly, “this old fart gave the Feds a run for their fucking money.”

Mickey couldn’t help but smile. “I bet… though if it was me, we’d have gotten away.”

“Yeah, yeah, easy shit to say when you’re sitting at the table and not behind the wheel,” Sal sniffed. “Hey look, after I woke up in the hospital, I decided to reach out to Fischetti and arrange a sit-down. I’ll make nice with him, buy us some time like you were saying. With this fucking heart of mine, last thing I need is that stress on my chest, giving me fucking agita. I’m gonna meet with them Sunday.”

And there it was again, that cold chill. Mickey tried to suppress his shudder. “Sunday, huh? Need me to come with?”  

Sal mulled it over silently. He never took any of the brothers to any sit-downs or gatherings with the other made men, knowing well the mobsters hated the sight of them. Sunday, though, Sal would be all wired up and probably getting ready to sweat through his shirt from the nerves. Having Mickey there, despite the possible danger to the younger man, might go a long way as a calming influence. Things always ran better when Mickey was around anyway.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind the company,” Sal said. “But, uh, you know you gotta make yourself scarce when the boys come. They get a little fidgety at the sight of you boys,” Sal said and Mickey nodded, noting the way Sal’s neck reddened and how the man was meeting his eyes. “I’m gonna fix everything, Mickey. I’m telling you. Things are going to be different for us.”

“Yeah…” Mickey said quietly, “Sunday it is.”

* * *

For both men, the weekend came with alarming speed and the evening, just as suddenly. Sal was holed up in the main house nervously strapping on his wire. He was flying solo without a safety net. Before the Feds would strike a deal with him, he had to bring them something of substance first. They probably meant something smaller and simpler, like names or locations—something to be verified. However, now that he had committed to becoming an informant, Sal found himself salivating over bringing down the Outfit and Big Tony in particular. What better way to right the wrongs and apply balm to his wounded soul than handing over his tormentors to the Feds of a silver platter? Sal took a deep breath, nodded to himself in the mirror and tried to determine the best spot for the wire.

In the pool house while Ian slept, Mickey was staring at himself in the mirror as well as he carefully adjusted his tie. He neatened his cuffs before slipping on his trench coat and stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror. Not bad for a dead man walking, he figured. He took a deep breath, nodded to himself and made his way into Ian’s bedroom. He hesitated for a moment as he watched Ian sleep before he gently sat on the edge of the bed and stroked the side of Ian’s face.

Ian stirred at Mickey’s touch and smiled tiredly at his boyfriend until he noticed what Mickey was wearing. He remembered that outfit well. It was the same black, three piece suit with the brilliant red tie Mickey had worn the day they met. Only the feeling wasn’t the same, and the look on Mickey’s face and the dread creeping up Ian’s spine made him sit up and frown at Mickey. “What’s going on?”

“We need to talk.”

* * *

Mickey made sure they were at Sandrini’s at least two hours before the scheduled meeting time. Mickey had no doubt that Big Tony would be there ahead of time as well, so this way Mickey tried to make sure they weren’t walking into an open ambush. They waited a short distance down the street, scoping out the place as best they could before approaching and parking. As far as they could make out, the coast was clear and they were first on site. Mickey locked the door behind them after they entered and Sal quickly staggered to a chair—a complete nervous wreck and ready to sweat right through his suit, despite Mickey’s presence.     

“Want a drink?” Mickey asked him and Sal nodded eagerly.

“Why’s it so fucking warm in here?” Sal rasped, tugging at his collar as Mickey went around behind the bar.

“Summer’s not going out without a fight,” Mickey said and placed two ice-filled glasses and a bottle of scotch on the table. Mickey took a seat next to his boss and eyed him closely. “You alright?”

“Yeah… yeah… just not looking forward to kissing anyone’s ass,” Sal said while mopping his brow and taking a stiff drink. “Don’t forget to take off when they show up.”

“I will. Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“Better than anyone I know,” Sal said.

“When you told me that this is all there was, that this is all we were good for… did you really mean that or were you just saying that to keep us here?”

Sal looked at him in surprise. He saw that Mickey was serious and paused to think about it for a moment. “Who even knows anymore?” Sal said after a while. “It’s true for me, it’s true for you, maybe. What does it even matter now anyway?”

“I met someone,” Mickey said softly, “and they think that maybe there’s more to me than this. They think I could be out, doing something else, being someone better, you know? And I’ve been trying to do the math for a while now and I don’t know if I can see it. So I need to know if you were just saying that shit to me, or if it’s true. I need you to tell me because you fuck up a lot Sal, but I don’t know, I still believe the shit you say.”

Sal stared into his glass as he swirled it slowly. “You know what you turn into when you go around trying to please people and be who they think you can be? A disappointment… that’s what you turn into,” Sal said sombrely. “They look at you like you’re special, like you’re somebody and they tell you beautiful shit about the plans they have for you and what the future will be like and what you can be and you find yourself believing that mess. You know what happens then? You try and you try and you fucking fail. You’re there the whole time feeling like you’re running backwards and all that hope they had in you and that bright future just slowly goes away.” Sal looked up at Mickey’s stricken face and shook his head. “You try everything, but one day you wake up and they’re looking at you the way Linda looks at me, the way my father looked at me… the way you’re looking at me now. You don’t wanna be a disappointment, Mickey; there’s no worse feeling in this goddamned world.”

“Yeah,” Mickey whispered, “okay.”

“I shoulda done better by you,” Sal admitted eventually, “I mean I saw potential in you for this life, but maybe—maybe there was potential there for other shit too. I don’t fucking know. I can’t tell you that you can be a doctor or a lawyer when being a fucking wise guy is all I know! But maybe… I shoulda done better, I guess.”

“You did what you could.”

Sal laughed bitterly. “I guess. I know my best ain’t shit.”

“We’re going to die here tonight, Sal,” Mickey said with grim finality and Sal froze, “but somehow, I think a small part of you knew that already.”

Within this family, it was always a possibility. “You’re supposed to take off.”

“I could,” Mickey sighed, “but where Salvatore Boerio goes, so does Mickey Milkovich, right? I wouldn’t leave you alone.”

Sal glanced up at Mickey before staring back at his empty glass. “Your father,” he began slowly, “that was me. It—things got out of hand.”

Mickey blinked slowly as the full comprehension of what Sal was saying hit home. There wasn’t time to process the myriad of emotions and realizations that flooded him. For the moment, all Mickey could choose to focus on was that Terry’s possible return was at least one less thing for the Milkovich kids to worry about. They were both distracted by the flash of headlights across the windows and Sal inhaled sharply. Mickey reached into his coat and pulled out a couple semi-automatic weapons and placed them on the table.

“Just because we’re gonna go out doesn’t mean we gotta go quietly right?” Mickey said to his boss as Sal gaped at him. “We will not go gently into that good night,” Mickey muttered to himself. Tony said he had to die; he certainly didn’t say he couldn’t die fighting.

Sal was freezing up, the terror settling in on him as more headlights flashed and the sound of approaching cars grew.  “I don’t want to see it coming, Mickey. I can’t—”

Mickey leaned forward and grabbed the back of Sal’s neck and forced the older man to look at him. “We don’t get a say in a lot of shit, Sal, but this is your last chance to decide how this can go down,” Mickey told him. “All these years you’ve been getting pushed around, now they’re coming to take you out. You’re gonna just let them? You don’t get a final say?” Mickey asked. “You’re the man here, you get your say. So how is this going to happen, Sal?”

* * *

Tony Salerno’s eyes narrowed as he took in the closed, dimly lit, silent bar. Sal’s car was there but the place showed no signs of life. Tony got out of his car and the men who accompanied him followed suit, each one reaching for his weapon.

“You’re thinking Sal came heavy?” Johnnie Boy asked Tony as they approached the bar, “he doesn’t have the balls to try anything.”

Despite his certainty, the silence from the bar was unnerving and the men stood outside silently, trying to gauge the situation. Johnnie snuck up and tried to peek through a window. “You think he’s in there?” he mused, “maybe he offed himself instead of—”

Johnnie’s thought was interrupted by a hail of gunfire bursting out at them from inside. The men all dove for cover as bullets ripped through windows and doors in rapid-fire bursts. Before long, all was suddenly silent again. Big Tony didn’t hesitate. “Light him up, the dumb fuck.”

The gangsters immediately pulled out their weapons and started firing indiscriminately at the building as they approached. There was no answering gunfire even as they attempted to breach the door. Tony kicked the splintered door open, keeping to the side in case there was more fire coming his way. When he slowly leaned inside, he immediately saw the bullet-riddled body of Salvatore Boerio—gun still clutched in his hand—sprawled on the floor by the overturned table.

Tony slowly advanced with his men behind him, still on edge for another attack. He kicked the gun from Sal’s hand, but there was no need. Sal was gone, the blood seeping from him in a flood as he stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. Tony’s men spread out and he moved forward, deeper into the bar and discovered the second body right behind the bar. Tony paused, sighed, and holstered his weapon. He stooped down and rolled Mickey over, the young man’s blood quickly creeping up his cuffs. “Ah kid, I was really hoping you’d run.”

Having swept and secured the bar, it was Johnnie who came over next. He was beside himself with glee. “The kid’s dead?” he laughed. Tony didn’t dignify his dumb question with a response, but Johnnie didn’t mind. “Fucking early Christmas present this is. It’s a goddamned two for one special.” His eyes swept the young man’s form and settled on the shiny, expensive watch. He bent down to reach for it, but Tony’s ice-cold voice stopped him.

“What are you doing?”

Johnnie backed off, chagrined and flustered. “It’s a nice watch; he don’t need it no more.”

“You’re going to rob the dead now; is that what you’re about to do? It’s bad enough you’d gloat like this, you’re going to take a trophy?”

“Now Tony, you know I don’t mean nothing by it; it’s just a nice watch and—”

“Get the gas,” Tony said.

Johnnie hesitated. “You’re really going to burn the joint though, Tony? I mean it’s Sandrini’s, it’s basically an institution—” he trailed off and cleared his throat self-consciously as Tony stood up and turned to look at him. Johnnie backed off, nodded, and hurried for the gasoline.

Tony took one of the canisters and liberally splashed it over the bar counter, the floor and Mickey’s body while his crew doused Sal and prepared the rest of the bar. Tony lit a match and stood over Mickey while the men readied to leave. “Bon voyage, kid,” Tony murmured and tossed the match down. Within a few minutes, Sandrini’s and all her contents were engulfed in flames.

* * *

The next few days were the strangest of Ian’s life. He spent most of the time feeling alien and dissociated as people swirled around him and vague things seemed to happen in the background. There was a fire, they said. No, first there was a shoot out and then a fire, they said. There were bodies. They have an idea who they were and maybe he should brace himself. Yes, he could hear them, but no he didn’t quite understand. There was a fire, Sandrini’s was gone, Sal was dead, but where was Mickey?

One day he woke up, blinked, and somehow ended up the medical examiner’s office with the rest of the Milkoviches. They were all solemn and silent as a grief counsellor spoke at them and explained why she was there and the process that would follow. Ian’s heart was starting to pound. His weird fugue was ending and it was in the worst possible place, at the worst possible time. He stared at Mandy, who had been stoic and solid ever since the news had broken. Now she looked small and fragile as she wrapped her thin arms around her body while they waited for the ME. Jaime reached out to her but she shook him off. Outside the room, Ian could spot Fowler and Hernandez lurking, apparently waiting just as they were.

Finally the door opened, and the medical examiner stepped in, an unassuming older man who apologized for his lateness and glanced helplessly around the glum gathering. In his hand, there was a large envelope. He adjusted his glasses and began softly.

“We were able to make a positive identification based on the dental records,” he said and whatever he said next faded into a dull roar in Ian’s ears. He could only watch as the ME handed Mandy the envelope—the few personal effects of Mickey Milkovich that had survived the fire.

You only get to fall apart two times: when the judge tells you they’re going away for good and when the coroner hands you their personal effects. When Mandy’s wail filled the room, Ian knew he had to go. He left the room, shoved past Fowler and tried desperately to find escape. Maybe if he ran far enough, he wouldn’t be able to hear Mandy’s anguished cry anymore, maybe it would all fade away behind him; hell, maybe he’d reach Canada.


	35. Don't they know it's the end of the world?

By the time Mickey’s body was released and everything was in place for his funeral, it was autumn. Ian couldn’t help but marvel at the symmetry of it all. They had met in the fall; right after Mickey had left a funeral to acquaint himself with Sal’s new squeeze. Now it was a year later—almost to the day—and yet another funeral, only this time it was to say goodbye.

It was a nice enough set up. They were outdoors and it was a beautiful day. Mandy, Svetlana and a few of the girls had done a great job arranging the small table, which was laden with flowers, a large, smiling picture of Mickey and a glossy, black urn which contained what little there was left of Mikhail Milkovich. Ian and the Milkovich brothers had stared dubiously when Mandy had selected it. It reminded her of Mickey’s Mustang, she had reasoned, but there was no way the men could wrap their minds around Mickey fitting into something that small and neat. Mickey was so much more than that; someone who couldn’t be contained in something that small, but yet there he was.

The gathering was bigger than Ian had been anticipating too. Then again, the Milkoviches alone made a fairly large and formidable group, but then there were the guys from Mickey’s garage, the girls from the Rub and Tug, Dre’s family—though the man himself was absent—and the varied collection of friends Mickey had made over the years—his weird menagerie of an extended family. On the outskirts, there was Linda and Big Tony, watching the proceedings from afar, while Fowler did the same from the other side. At least there was no one there from the Outfit to gloat.

They all sat or stood sombrely as the priest gave that age old story of life and death, comfort and loss, and gentle warnings about preparing for the other side. Ian hoped that the real requirements for getting into heaven were a little more lax than what the priest described, or else they were all fucked. The priest droned on and Ian let the words wash over him and simply kept staring at Mickey grinning back at him.

As it turned out, Mickey had taken plenty enough pictures over the years, except almost none of them was particularly appropriate for a funeral portrait. They didn’t want to use mug shots, couldn’t use ones with obscene gestures, none with drugs, alcohol or cigarettes, and nothing where he was doing something too crazy with his eyebrows. That had pretty much eliminated everything and they were about to resort to Photoshop until Ian had volunteered one from his private collection—his series of snaps from stolen moments and precious memories when half the time, Mickey hadn’t known Ian was snapping away. For a while, Mandy hadn’t known which to choose. They eventually settled on one from Mickey’s birthday, when he had ridden the Ferris wheel, too high and giddy on love to protest when Ian wanted to take his picture. Mandy figured that one was perfect.

Admittedly, Ian hadn’t heard much of what had happened during the funeral, but when the program ended, Ian felt a frisson of panic. The entire ceremony seemed over far too fast. Surely for Mickey there would be more? But Ian could only blink in shock as the crowd began to dissolve and drift away as if this was really the ending and everyone else intended to just sigh and go on with their lives, business as usual. As the small crowd dispersed, Jayne tentatively walked up to her uncle’s table and gave him her rendering of the Milkovich family portrait, laying it down before his picture before rushing back to her father, who picked her up and soothed her as she buried her face in his neck.

It was Mandy who took the ashes as the family lingered behind. It was at that point Fowler approached. “Mandy…” he began, but was quelled by Mandy’s chilling look and fell silent as she marched away from him, hugging the black urn close, and her brothers with their partners, children and the like closely following suit. Ian paused to get Mickey’s picture. That was his picture, his Mickey, the one that belonged to him and no one else, the one he was able to see even when no one else could. Alex rested a comforting hand on his back as he picked up the framed picture and stared down at it.

“For what it’s worth,” Fowler said quietly to him, “this is the last thing anyone wanted. I wanted him out. I wanted to help him get away… I tried—”

“Not hard enough,” Ian said.

“Ian!” Mandy called out to him and he turned to see that the Milkoviches were waiting for him at the top of the hill. Mickey or no, Ian was one of them now and Milkoviches didn’t talk to any kind of pig. Ian took his picture and Alex’s hand and made his way back to his family.

* * *

The part of it that Ian couldn’t understand was the way the world simply kept turning. People kept on going, life kept on happening and no one else seemed static or stuck. There was nothing epic or biblical—there weren’t seven weeks of rain, there wasn’t a national outcry, there was simply nothing. Mickey had died and no one else seemed to understand that a part of the world had ended. For Ian, it wasn’t completely unlike adjusting to a new pill regimen. It wasn’t that anything was radically different; it just felt like everything was now off by a few degrees—as if everything had slipped sideways just a little and now Ian had to adjust to an entirely new world, one that hadn’t changed enough to be obvious, but changed enough to keep him off-kilter and bumping into walls.

The first thing he had to do was pack his things and get out of Linda’s house. She hadn’t said anything yet, but it was obvious that he had to do it as soon as possible. Sal was gone, so was Mickey, and by right, Ian should have never been there in the first place. He, Mandy and her brothers were making swift work of packing up  and dismantling all traces of anything Milkovich in the pool house when Linda stepped in and gave everyone pause.

“We’re almost gone,” Mandy snapped acidly, making the older woman wince a little. Linda hovered at the doorway, uncertain if she should be there as a sign of reclaiming her home or if she should leave to give them their space. She eventually stepped back outside and stood in the cobblestone pathway and watched bleakly as the family silently and hastily moved things out of the house. “We’re not taking anything that’s not ours,” Mandy tossed at her for good measure and Linda said nothing to that. She just stared, unable to articulate a single feeling until the last item had been moved out and suddenly, all the children were gone without so much as a goodbye.

She stepped into the pool house—now bereft of life—and blinked at the emptiness and stillness of it all. She stepped lightly through the rooms, down to the basement, up the stairs, and marvelled at how fifteen years could be scrubbed so cleanly away. There was much to be said about Salvatore, and she had probably said most of it, but it could not be denied that the man had an energy that could fill a room—give it life. He surrounded himself with people who could keep that energy going and now it was gone. Salvatore, the love of her life and the bane of her existence, was gone, and true to form, the bastard had managed to take it all with him.

When Linda stepped back outside, she looked helplessly around her estate and was struck for the first time how huge it was and how utterly lonely she would be. So there, standing alone on her cobblestone pathway, Linda Fischetti cried, weeping openly for everything that was, for the things that might have been, and for the lives and loves that could never be again.

* * *

It was a few days after the funeral that Tony Milkovich had his first conversation with Tony Salerno. Even elbows deep in potting soil and mulch, Big Tony was the kind of frightening and powerful that the Milkovich brothers knew Sal had hoped to become but could never feasibly achieve. The younger Tony shifted his weight from foot to foot, waiting for the underboss to acknowledge him.

“First of all,” Big Tony finally said as he stood to clean up and face his visitor, “my condolences on the passing of your brother. It was a piece of bad business and I had hoped for a very different outcome. It was upsetting for me, so I can only imagine what it’s been like for you and your family,” he continued as the other man stared back stoically at him. “I made a promise to your brother that if things went badly for him, then I would look out for his family. So if there’s anything you might need, any help I could offer, let your family know not to hesitate to ask, and if it’s within my power, I will honour that pledge,” Big Tony said and waited for Tony Milkovich’s single nod. “Now I hope you’ll understand that this is a matter that I trust has been resolved. No acrimony, no reprisals, this is the last I’d want to speak or hear about the issue. Am I understood?”

The younger man sighed and spoke for the first time since entering the greenhouse. “My brother’s dead, Big Tony, and we’re grieving for him. But it is what it is and we’ve got families to take care of and we need to keep it moving. From our end, any and all issues are dead and buried with Sal and my brother. We’re just trying to survive.”

Big Tony nodded again. “Good, that’s good to hear,” he said and with that, that chapter of the book was closed. “Now the next thing I wanted to talk to you about was that I find myself in need of a specialist of sorts. Someone who can take care of identified problems quietly, if that’s what the case calls for, or not so quietly if needs be… if you follow me,” he continued. “Your brother said you could be such a man—said you were even working on a signature.”

Tony Milkovich allowed himself a ghost of a smile as he relaxed and warmed to one of his favourite topics. “You ever heard of a Glasgow smile?”

* * *

The young man landed painfully on the ground outside the Rub and Tug with Mandy following closely behind, her ASP still in hand.

“How are you going to take my kicks, Mandy?!” the young man screeched even as he scrambled to get further away from the scowling woman. Behind her, some of the girls and a few clients had gathered at the door to peep out and witness the ensuing carnage. As always, the boy wasn’t hobbling away without a few parting shots. “I thought you were going to run this place better instead of keeping these disrespectful hoes. Come on, Mandy, gimme my shoes back!”

“You come here again without money and I’m taking your fucking knees next!” Mandy warned him. “Get the fuck off my property before I break your face!” she yelled and extended the metal baton again, ensuring that the unhappy patron hurried off, barefooted and without another word. She then rounded on the offending prostitute as everyone else quickly scattered to the wind. “And you! Stop letting his broke ass in here just because you want to gank his shoes!”

“But my brother pays top dollar for them,” the young woman whined, “way more than we could ever get out of that deadbeat, mama.”

“Oh my god, why do you all keep calling me that?!”

As if in answer to her question, Trish floated towards her, waving Mandy’s cell phone in her hand. “Phone call for you, mama.”

Mandy grabbed the phone in a huff and immediately yelled into it irritably, “who the fuck and why the fuck?!”

* * *

It had been Linda, extending yet another invitation to a sceptical and suspicious Mandy for a visit. She had been relentless lately. Eventually curiosity won out over any other conflicting emotions and Mandy found her way back to the place that had been her home for so long. She raised an eyebrow at the delicately set table in the main house and at the assortment of sandwiches and finger foods. Linda apparently wanted to play tea party all of a sudden and as far as Mandy was concerned, the older woman was far more than a day late and a dollar short. Mandy wasn’t having any pretence of civility and genteel feelings.

“What do you want, Linda? I’ve got things to do,” she snapped and tapped her foot for good measure, refusing to sit down when Linda nodded to the chair next to hers.

Linda sighed and awkwardly got to her feet once more. “I just wanted to talk,” she began nervously, “and to see how you were.”

“Peachy fucking keen, Jellybean,” Mandy sneered, “you get my brother killed and you want to know how I am? Seriously?”

Linda flinched hard at the accusation. “I didn’t! I never once thought—” she started with a stumble, “I never imagined Mickey would get swept up in this. I thought… I honestly thought he’d get out somehow—that you all would.”

“Well he’s out alright, maybe he’s better off than we are; who the fuck even knows,” Mandy muttered, crossing her arms as she visibly deflated a little before Linda’s eyes. “Why am I even here?”

Linda sighed. “I really wanted to know how you were, Mandy. I know I haven’t been, um, the best person when it came to you kids, but I was hoping I could do better now—especially when it comes to you.” She wiped her damp palms on her slacks as Mandy raised an eyebrow and looked at her askance. “I know you’ve been staying at the, uh…”

“Rub and Tug.”

“Yes, there, and the pool house is still empty and I—”

“—realized that one is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do? Big place to keep up all on your own isn’t it? Trash that we Milkoviches are, I’m guessing you know we’d have nothing on any renters coming for the pool house, invading your precious privacy—”

“Jesus fuck, I’m trying here, alright? You think you can stop being a brat for five goddamned seconds so I can just extend this fucking olive branch?!” Linda snapped, shocking Mandy into silence. Linda pressed a hand to her forehead and sighed again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry; I’m just… I’m just very bad at this; at everything remotely personal, really.”

“Yeah, my heart bleeds for you,” Mandy mumbled beneath her breath, a bit cowed by Linda’s desperate outburst despite her bravado. “So well, what then?”

“I’m hoping you’ll give me a chance to, to… I don’t even know right now,” Linda admitted. “But I know you’ve been displaced and that you need a place—a proper place—and the pool house is open to you if you want. I guess we could just take it from there, if you’re willing.”

Mandy stared at the pale, anxious woman for a while before shrugging noncommittally as she headed over to the set table and idly took up a handful of the finger sandwiches. “I’ll think about it.”

* * *

Agent Fowler’s team filed into the room as he stood before his white board outlining the known hierarchy of the Chicago Outfit. While they took their seats, chatted amongst themselves and had their tablets updated, Fowler quietly plucked off the pictures of Salvatore Boerio, Mikhail Milkovich, Ian Gallagher, and the remaining Milkovich family and dropped them into an envelope to be properly filed later on, whether into his “deceased” file or otherwise. He deftly shuffled the remaining pictures and added some new faces.

“With the recent shakeup within the Outfit, our sources have it that the books have been reopened and we have some new players stepping in,” Fowler said, addressing his team. “Most we’re already aware of but a few others we need to get a better bead on. Word has it that Johnnie Boy Marcello has joined the ranks as a capo; Trigger DeStafano, his enforcer…” he went on to list a few more names and their alleged positions within the organization.

“Do we have inroads with any of them?” Hernandez asked.

“We have a few promising leads,” Fowler nodded, “Saul the accountant held the books for a number of these guys. Some of them are ripe for the picking. So let’s discuss the game plan moving forward.”

* * *

Ian tried to tell Alex that he wasn’t going to be company that night. He wasn’t going to be good anything for a while, but she had decided that they needed to go out and refused to leave him at home. He let her pilot him to some hipsteresque gastropub they couldn’t afford in the hopes that pricey food and alcohol would rev him up a little bit.

“Great thing about all the meds we’re on at least is that we’re cheap dates,” Alex joked, inadvertently reminding Ian about how much shit Mickey gave him for being a lightweight. At best, all he could manage for the time being was to sit quietly, semi-attentive as Alex’s chatter and good intentions washed over him. Nothing really registered until he saw her straighten up and noted the flash of guilt in her eyes. He followed her anxious glance to see Dre making his way towards them. “He just got back in town today,” she attempted to explain quickly, “he called and I told him where we were headed, but I didn’t know that he’d show up.”

Not that she told him not to, Ian surmised. He gave her a thin smile to assure her that it was completely fine for her to drag him out to a crowded pub filled with laughing, happy people and then spring her boyfriend—who was equal parts still alive and still annoying—on him. Still, he knew she had been missing him while he was away on one of his runs and Ian knew the feeling well, so he wasn’t about to be a dick about it… at least not intentionally.

“What’s good?” Dre crooned smoothly as he kissed Alex on the cheek and slid into the booth next to her. Ian wanted to smash his pretentious pint glass over the newcomer’s head. “What did I miss?”

“Your best friend’s funeral,” Ian couldn’t resist seething despite Alex’s growing discomfiture, “couldn’t find a chance to make it back?”

Dre had the gall to simply shrug. “Couldn’t be helped, man, but shit, if no one else did, Mickey understood the game. Besides, funerals aren’t even for the dead, they’re for the living and I can pay my respects in my own way and time.”

Ian could not resist rolling his eyes at the latest instalment of Dre’s ongoing pseudo-philosophical bullshit. Fortunately, the couple missed the gesture and Ian covered his accompanying derisive snort by shoving a steak fry in his mouth.

“So I ran into an old friend of my mom’s while I was down in New Mexico,” Dre told his girlfriend, “I didn’t even recognize her at first, because she goes by Big Bertha now, but back in the day, everyone knew her as Big Bobby, you feel me?”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I didn’t have a clue back then. I mean, people would talk shit about Big Bobby, but I was a kid, didn’t know what they were really driving at, but turns out she was transitioning when she got the hell out of the Southside. Anyway, I was telling her about you, some of the shit you’re going through right now. You know she’s feeling you and your struggle because as you can imagine, wasn’t any picnic back then going through all of that in the place where she was,” Dre said and Alex nodded in understanding. “She was saying that while things are a little better now for the Trans community, it still isn’t shit overall. Turns out she became an activist within the movement, helping people get treatment and counselling and moving further along in their transition. Kind of has a modern Harriet Tubman vibe going.”

“Right…” Alex said slowly and hesitantly, “Harriet Tubman… because she’s the one that, um, sat on the, uh…” she coughed and trailed off awkwardly.

“Yeah, you’re thinking of Rosa Parks. Harriet Tubman was all the way back. Underground Railroad? ‘They call her Moses…?’ You know what, we’ll get you there,” Dre said, “Anywho, she says she’d love it if you gave her a call. She still has mad links in Chicago, and says maybe she can help hook you up with better gender reassignment counsellors and some resources that will help you navigate everything a little easier. Then she started going on about Thailand and regulations and I was getting lost, but yeah,” Dre nodded and fished in his jacket for some neatly folded printouts with a giant phone number scrawled across the top and handed them to a wide-eyed Alex. “Just give her a call; she can’t wait to talk your ear off.”

Alex was almost beside herself at the thought of the unexpected help. She hugged Dre excitedly and turned to beam at Ian who was trying his best to look engaged and enthused, but couldn’t quite manage it. Her smile and fervour dimmed and Ian could not have felt like a bigger asshole.

“We can talk about all this later,” she said to Dre and started to put everything away.

“No, no, you should talk about this now,” Ian said, shaking his head and getting to his feet. “This is some good news to hear and you should get on it right away. I’m going to head back to your place and just hang out for the night. It’s not even that late; maybe you can give Bertha a call now.”

“Ian, I really don’t think—”

“Allie, I’m fine; it’s fine. I just need to be alone for a little bit, that’s all, really.”

“Ian—” she began to protest, but was surprisingly cut off by Dre.

“The man wants to be alone, let him be alone. It’s not always a red flag to something dire, woman,” Dre told her, earning a glare from Alex and a grateful look from Ian. Dre probably had ulterior motives for supporting Ian’s leaving, but right then, Ian thought he was beautiful. Before Alex could sputter out anymore concern or indignation, Dre slid out of the booth. “I gotta make a call and I’ll get you an Über at the same time, okay?” Dre said and Ian nodded before spending the next few minutes trying to reassure his friend that he would be fine on his own for a while. Dre returned quickly. “Nine to twelve minutes,” he said, waving his phone at Ian.

They followed Ian outside after Dre’s phone alerted them that Ian’s ride was there. They headed out into the chilly night and Alex hugged Ian close.

“Somebody call for Über?” A man with a heavy Russian accent yelled out from the black SUV that pulled up. Dre waved him down and Ian disentangled himself from Alex’s grasp.

“Call me if you need me,” she ordered and Ian promised he would before gratefully climbing into the back of the car.

His driver was chatty, vacillating between complaining about the weather and traffic, to making broad comparisons between Russia and the States. Ian was being driven by a regular Yakov Smirnoff wannabe and he could not care less. He tuned the man out and stared broodingly out the window.

“Hey, hey, hey!”

Ian sighed heavily as the driver’s voice drilled into his skull. “Yeah?”

“What’s with long face?”

“Nothing, headache,” Ian said tersely and yet the man would not be deterred.

“No, you are sad,” the man said and stroked his beard thoughtfully as he looked at Ian through the rear-view mirror, “in Russia, we know sadness, yes? It is the first emotion we learn to recognize. I tell you what, I tell you joke. It is funny, you will laugh.”

“Oh god, you really don’t have to. I’m just trying to get—”

“Man walks into supermarket,” the driver ploughed on heedlessly, “and he is attracted to handsome cashier, but does not know how to approach. But he has epiphany, yes? So he goes to cashier and says—and this is joke—‘hey, you got any Slim Jims in this shithole?”

Ian’s head snapped up and there in the rear-view mirror, despite the short beard and heavy accent were a pair of very familiar blue eyes.

“There he is,” Mickey said, all traces of an accent now gone and his smile wide. “Sorry I’m late.”

* * *

A short while later, Mickey thoughtfully found a quiet, empty lot and pulled over just so his boyfriend could beat the shit out of him.

“Where the fuck have you been?!” Ian raged as Mickey skipped out of reach. “You said you’d be gone a few weeks!”

“It’s only been a few weeks!” Mickey cried.

“It’s been over a month!”

“Technically, a month is only a few weeks and—gah!” Mickey got the wind knocked out of him as Ian tackled him to the grass.

“No word, no fucking word for over a month, Mickey!”

“I told you I had to go dark for a while and—”

“What is this shit on your face?!” Ian said, tugging fitfully at Mickey’s beard.

“Easy, easy, it’s glued on pretty good,” Mickey laughed, stilling Ian’s hands. “but it kinda suits me, right?”

“No, it fucking doesn’t!” Ian kept on yelling, all the while shaking Mickey a bit as he tugged on his coat. “How are you even—”

“Ian, Ian,” Mickey kept calling Ian’s name long enough to cut through his boyfriend’s near incoherent ranting. When Ian finally stopped raging long enough to look down at him, Mickey beamed up at him looking for all the world like a triumphant, bearded five year old, and sounding like one too. “Hi,” he said happily, “missed ya.”

Ian inhaled sharply just before his face crumpled and he broke down and scared the hell out of Mickey.

“Hey, no, what is happening right now?” Mickey said and tugged Ian down to him. “No, what is this? I told you I’d be gone for a while, but you knew I’d come back to get you.”

“It’s been so long and no one said anything,” Ian said haltingly, “and everything was just… I didn’t think it worked!”

“What, seriously?”

* * *

_A short while earlier:_

_Dre stepped outside as he dialled his phone. Twice he ended the call after three rings before calling the number once again. Mickey picked up quickly and answered, “yeah?”_

_“Quick question, but I need you to think carefully about the answer,” Dre said, “does gingerbread know how things went down?”_

_“Um… yes?”_

_Dre glanced back at the crowded pub. “Now are you absolutely sure, because I’m with him and Alex at the spot and boy’s selling grieving widower with a conviction I haven’t seen since Gone with the wind.”_

_On the other end of the line, Mickey was plunged into confusion. “No, but he… I mean I didn’t tell him all the fine details, but I told him that—I mean…”_

_“Look, you close yet?”_

_“Uh, about twenty minutes out.”_

_“Yeah, see if you can make it a little quicker, ‘cause I think you need to come get your bitch.”_

* * *

“Your dental records matched!” Ian warbled before unceremoniously jabbing his thumb into Mickey’s mouth and poking at Mickey’s teeth. “How the hell then?!”

* * *

_A year earlier:_

_“Government freak show,” Mickey said to Svetlana after leaving the man in the study._

_“You think he is plant?” she asked._

_“Nah, not with a kink that specific,” Mickey replied. They’d accommodate him, but Mickey definitely wanted the whole shebang on record._

_“You think he might be useful?”_

_“Couldn’t hurt… You know what car he came here in?”_

_Mickey followed Svetlana’s directions and found the car while she kept the man occupied. Mickey eyed the car’s plates while he dialled a friend._

_“Yeah?” Jason Burrows purred over the line._

_“I need you to run a plate for me.”_

_The detective sighed loudly. “Why do you only call me when you want something?”_

_“Why would I call you otherwise? Besides you know I’m good for it.”_

_Jason sighed again, “so cold. Fine, gimme the number.”_

_There was a brief wait before Jason emitted a low whistle. “Um, why do you need this information exactly?”_

_“I like to know a little about my kinkier johns before I let them loose on my girls. You know this… what’s the problem?”_

_“Oh… well this plate belongs to our friendly, local medical examiner, so maybe tread lightly with him,” Jason told him and reeled off the rest of the information._

_“Medical examiner,” Mickey mused out loud. Well that certainly explained a few things._

* * *

_A month earlier:_

_Almost everyone in Andrew Weston’s life marvelled when they learned about his job. They didn’t know how he could manage it, stomach the death, blood and guts day in and day out every day. Andrew didn’t know how to explain it without sounding like the crypt keeper, but the dead were glorious and fascinating. They were still and silent, patient and nonjudgmental. They kept him quiet company and made no fuss as he went about his business unlocking their mysteries. All their troubles were behind them and Andrew envied their serenity. The dead were easy; it was the living who were hell on earth._

_Case in point was the one who had somehow managed to get into his workspace and was standing about gawking like the county morgue was some sort of museum. He was about to raise an alarm when the man turned about and smiled at him—a predator’s smile. Andrew paled upon recognizing Mickey._

_“Hey, doc,” Mickey greeted warmly, “how’s it hanging?”_

_Andrew glanced around nervously and fussed with his glasses. It was late, but there was no telling who was about. An unexpected visit from the pimp he patronized could not be good for him, his personal life and especially his career._

_“What are you doing here? How did you find me?”_

_“A man of your tastes and bearing?” Mickey clicked his tongue and lifted a sheet to peer under it curiously, “not that hard to find.”_

_“Please don’t touch anything!”_

_Mickey dropped the sheet and spread his hands in mock apology. “Look, doc, I won’t waste your time here. I need a little favour from you. In a few days, there are going to be a few bodies coming your way from a mob joint called Sandrini’s…”_

_Andrew blanched even further and shook his head wildly. “No, no! I don’t know what this is, but I can’t be any part of something like that! A man in my position can’t get mixed up in—”_

_Mickey clicked his tongue, “oh there’s a lot of things a man in your position should not be doing, let’s be real, but I’ve personally seen you overcome some of those hurdles. I don’t want to be crass, doc, but you’ve gotta help me out here, or else a whole lot of other people are going to see you overcome those hurdles too. I’m guessing your wife is only like fifth in the ‘don’t show, don’t tell’ rankings.”_

_“You… you recorded?” Andrew whispered hoarsely._

_“Just as a matter of insurance, doc. You gotta believe me, I would never share that information with anyone unless under extreme duress, you follow?” Mickey asked lightly and waited for the medical examiner to nod slowly._

_“I can’t…” the doctor began but then exhaled a shuddering breath, “what do you need?”_

_“It’s nothing even that major, seriously. All I’m saying is that in a few days, there are going to be some bodies coming your way—I can’t be sure of the number. I might be among them, but hopefully, I won’t be. Either way, I’m going to need my name to be attached to one of those bodies, doc, and that’s where you come in.”_

* * *

“You never mentioned the medical examiner,” Ian accused softly, still tapping on Mickey’s teeth.

“They’re mine, quit,” Mickey laughed and gently bit Ian’s finger. “He just said that they matched. Whatever happened, he was going to have to sell it that one of those bodies was me.” 

* * *

_Months earlier:_

_The resemblance was definitely striking. It was starting to weird Mickey out a little. The thought of Terry running around populating the world with more bastard Milkoviches was unsettling to say the least. Still, Lucky’s guy appeared to be around Jaime and Tony’s age and he doubted Terry Milkovich would have let a kid of his flourish outside of his clutches. Unless this one’s mom was smart enough to hide her kid from the walking volcanic disaster that was their father._

_Tony interrupted his thoughts. “What do you think, take him down to the plant?”_

_Mickey shook his head. “Too much heat’s on; concrete’s better. They’re going to be laying the foundation soon over at that new mini-mall. He can be part of it. Or you know what else you could do…” Mickey paused and gnawed on his lower lip. “Fuck it, put him on ice for a bit until I figure something else out.”_

_“You wanna ice him?” Tony snorted, “What the fuck for? We aren’t a goddamned morgue and if you’re wondering if he’s family, you don’t need the whole body for a DNA test.”_

_It was a fair point, but the surreal feeling of staring at the corpse of who could be an unknown Milkovich niggled at Mickey. He couldn’t bring himself to just dump the man just yet. Plus, in the back of his head, a crazy thought began to take root. “Just do it.”_

_“Where the fuck are we going to keep him? One of the ice trucks?”_

* * *

_Iggy was still laughing at Ian’s gobsmacked reaction to Sandrini’s hidden doors and passageways. He popped open the deep freeze and reached for a beer. “Want one?” he asked Ian, and tossed his friend a can of beer. He reached back for another and accidentally shifted the fake flooring of the freezer to slightly reveal literal ice blue eyes staring up at him through a thick layer of plastic. Iggy glanced quickly in Ian’s direction to see if the other man noticed anything was amiss, but Ian was busy downing his beer. Iggy reset the flooring and closed the freezer so he could pop his own can. Ignorance was truly bliss sometimes._

* * *

“We weren’t sure,” Ian continued, “I mean, I know what you said, but it all seemed so crazy and I kept thinking of everything that could go wrong until it all started to seem real. No one could say anything for sure, because no one had really heard from you. Then it’s not like we even got to see the body so we could know it wasn’t actually you. Everything got burnt in the fire.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know Big Tony was going to torch the place,” Mickey admitted, “you have to admit that it did work in our favour though…”

* * *

_A month earlier:_

_“Hey, easy!” Mickey directed Jaime and Tony as they plunked down the unknown Milkovich behind the bar at Sandrini’s. “Fucker’s frozen stiff; you want him to shatter or something? What fucking use would he be then?”_

_“This is fucking nuts,” Jaime grunted and bent down to rap on the dead man’s face with his knuckles. He’s a block of ice right now. Who the fuck is he going to fool?”_

_“Turn the heat up,” Mickey told Joey, “all the way up. See if we can get him thawed out and ready in time.”_

_Tony eyed the body critically, “he does look like us, right? Especially you and Mandy, but I don’t think he’ll hold up on too close of an inspection.”_

_“Resemblance or not, dude’s been dead for months,” Jaime added his concerns, “no way the coroner’s gonna think he got whacked in a shootout on the weekend.”_

_“Don’t worry about that, it’ll be fine,” Mickey said cryptically, “how long do you think it’s gonna take to get him loose enough to dress him?”_

_As it would turn out, it would take a while. It was the morning of the fateful day before the brothers could have the unknown Milkovich decked out in Mickey’s finery. When they were done, they stood back and examined their macabre handiwork for a while._

_“He looks less like you now,” Jaime pointed out with concern, “though death is supposed to screw up the features, so…”_

_“We should shoot him in the face,” Tony said mildly._

_“Jesus, Tone,” Jaime tutted._

_“For the added insurance,” Tony reasoned, “actually, he’s supposed to die in a gunfight, right? We should probably shoot him a bunch of times.”_

_The men all shared a glance before Mickey sighed, nodded and pulled out his weapon while his brothers followed suit, “ah, we’re going to hell.”_

_“Was there ever any doubt?” Jaime said._

_With that done, they were still unsure about their success as they stared down at the much harassed dead man. “What are we still missing?”_

_“Blood,” Tony pointed out again and the brothers all ahhed at the revelation._

_“Well how the fuck am I supposed to pull that off?!” Mickey said exasperatedly._

_“Nah, I got it,” Jaime said and shrugged when his brothers looked at him. “Last Halloween Jaynie wanted to go as the vampire queen of her playgroup. Long story short, we’re not allowed back in that playgroup and I have a good amount of leftover fake blood.”_

* * *

_There were warning bells going off in Big Tony’s head the moment he pulled up to the bar. Sal’s car was there, parked in the open at the front of Sandrini’s, yet the place was dark and closed up. It looked a far cry from the friendly sit down Sal had proposed. He doubted Sal had been tipped off, because no way his former boss wouldn’t have run for the hills, but this setup didn’t exactly smell of Sal either. It looked and felt like an invitation to an obvious ambush. On one hand, Sal simply didn’t have that kind of nerve, yet the situation was enough to give Tony pause._

_“You’re thinking Sal came heavy?” Johnnie Boy asked him, reading his thoughts. Johnnie almost laughed out loud at the idea as he approached the front of the bar. “He doesn’t have the balls to try anything.” Still, despite his own claims, even Johnnie grew disquieted at the silence emanating from the building. He tried to sneak up and peak through the window. “You think he’s in there?” he mused, “maybe he offed himself instead of—”_

_Gunfire exploded from inside the building and had the men scrambling for cover. By the time the bullets abated and Big Tony could regain his bearings, he was seeing red at the audacity. “Light him up, the dumb fuck.”_

_The first body he came across was Sal’s and surprise filtered through Tony at the sight of the fallen man, gun still clutched in his hand. The last thing he’d expected from Salvatore was a last stand like this. Despite all his bluster, Salvatore had never been a blaze of glory kind of man, though he might have wanted to be. Still, at the end of the day Salvatore wouldn’t be Salvatore if he didn’t have at least one surprise left in him._

_The mobsters fanned out to investigate, though all wondered who Sal could possibly have convinced to take that last ride with him. As Tony rounded the bar, he found his answer. His heart sank a little at the sight of Mickey’s body sprawled face down on the floor. He sighed as he put away his weapon and stooped to roll Mickey over. “Ah kid, I was really hoping you’d run.”_

_For the second time that evening, Tony was struck by how off everything felt within the moment. Something didn’t look right, didn’t feel right, and literally didn’t smell right. Tony frowned as he gave the body a once over. At quick glance this was Mickey Milkovich, with a few allowances made for getting shot in the face. Problem was that while Mickey was never the tannest man around, the grey pallor seemed unnatural for a boy who just got killed moments earlier._

_Tony ran his hand down Mickey’s arm to touch the bare skin of the young man’s hand. Cool, too cool to be newly dead. The skin had already lost all its elasticity and he could see signs of lividity. Even the blood seeping up Tony’s sleeve felt off and he gingerly brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed at the red fluid. The scent was faint but there was an unmistakably sweet odour about it. Tony blinked as the realization of what was happening hit him all at once. The kid was trying to pull a fast one—on him, on Sal, on the whole fucking world—and it had to be the most insane and beautiful thing Tony had ever seen. He almost burst out laughing._

_“The kid’s dead?”_

_Johnnie’s gleeful query broke into Tony’s revelation. There was a brief moment of alarm as Tony watched the other man lean down to take a closer look and a few of Mickey’s personal effects._

_“What are you doing?” Tony asked coldly, bringing Johnnie to a screeching halt._

_“It’s a nice watch; he don’t need it no more.”_

_Tony was disgusted even as he scrambled to keep Johnnie from making his own discoveries. There was hardly a man there in that building who wasn’t well-versed in the signs and ways of death. “You’re going to rob the dead now; is that what you’re about to do? It’s bad enough you’d gloat like this, you’re going to take a trophy?” Tony sneered. Even as Johnnie tried to sputter up an explanation, Tony cut him off by issuing an imperious order. “Get the gas.”_

_Up until that point, Tony hadn’t really settled on burning Sandrini’s. He loved fire as a means of destroying evidence after hits like this, but Sandrini’s was a significant part of the Outfit’s history. Still, Sandrini’s had had its time in the sun, just the way Salvatore had, and it was time to give someone else the chance. Tony had no idea how fully fleshed out Mickey’s plan was, but if that body switch hadn’t fooled Tony for long, it was definitely not going to pass muster with the medical examiner. Consequently, everything had to burn._

_Tony had to fight a small smile as he and his men doused the place with gasoline. He had presented Mickey with a few options never imagining the kid would create another. Tony had figured it would be a contest between Mickey the kid, filled with dumb hope and a desire to live, and the Mickey the patriarch who had to make sure his family survived. Tony had been cheering for the kid to win that battle, that Mickey would say “screw everything!” and take that chance to run and live for himself the way Tony had wanted to but never did. Trust Mickey to try and find a way to bridge that gap._

_“Bon voyage, kid,” Tony murmured and tossed the match down. Within a few minutes, Sandrini’s and all her contents were engulfed in flames and as far as Tony Salerno was concerned, Mickey Milkovich had fulfilled his end of the bargain._

* * *

Mickey took a chance and gently nudged Ian. The latter had his head rested on Mickey’s chest and was gripping Mickey’s jacket as he listened to his steady heartbeat.

“Hey,” Mickey said as he ran his fingers through Ian’s hair. “We need to go.” He sighed softly when Ian simply curled in closer, physically rejecting the idea of breaking the moment and leaving the spot. Mickey tried again. “We’re a couple of weird dudes lying outside in an empty lot. Somebody’s going to get interested soon. Normally I wouldn’t care, but seeing as how I’m dead and all…”

That got Ian to raise his head and give Mickey a baleful glare, which only earned Ian a grin in response. Ian sighed at the thought of moving, but he really had lost track of time and they had to have been lying there for a while. He stirred and finally followed Mickey back to the car, so they could drive to a motel well past the outskirts of town.

Mickey walked backwards into the room, pulling Ian in. Ian tugged gently on Mickey’s beard as he trailed his boyfriend inside. “Your face is stupid,” Ian said softly.

“Yeah, but you love it though,” Mickey said as he shed his jacket and climbed out of his shoes. He reached for Ian and pulled him down into a soft, deep kiss as Ian guided them towards the bed until Mickey’s knees hit the back of it.

Mickey sat down and eagerly started shedding his clothes as he heatedly watched Ian do the same. When they had both stripped down to their underwear, Ian nudged Mickey further into the bed and climbed in to lie alongside him. He grabbed Mickey’s hand to rub his finger over Mickey’s knuckles.

“We were supposed to get to identify the body,” Ian reminded him, “I was going to check the finger tats to make sure it wasn’t you.”

“Well Joey Sharpie’d them on as best as he could, but yeah, you’d have been able to tell,” Mickey joked, “but you didn’t get the chain back, right?” he said, tugging on the gold chain around his neck, “I gave up the watch, but I never took this off.”

“It could have melted or something,” Ian mumbled, growing chagrined as Mickey continued chipping away at his dramatic grief with cool logic.

“If you really thought it could have melted in that fire, then you bought me a cheap, piece of crap and that’s totally on you,” Mickey teased again and silenced any further sputtering by kissing Ian again.

The kiss was all Mickey, the way it made Ian’s head buzz and the blood sing in his veins, and the way it felt like coming home. Ian pushed Mickey onto his back, moving with him to lie atop him and continue his own verification that his soul had come back. The alien facial hair threw Ian a bit, but when he moved to suck on the column of Mickey’s throat while he pinched Mickey’s nipple and trailed his hand down to stroke his cock, that special melody of sounds and sighs was all the confirmation Ian needed. Mickey was alive and well, and hot and hard beneath him. The relief that flooded Ian almost did him in. As time had passed, he had become sure that the last time they were together would be the last time they were together.

* * *

_Mickey wanted his permission to die._

_As dramatic and outrageous as it sounded, that was exactly what Ian was hearing at the moment. Mickey was sitting on the edge of his bed, decked out in the same suit he was wearing when they had met, quietly asking if Ian would be okay with him going off and getting himself killed._

_“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Ian sat up abruptly, the exhaustion evaporating from him instantly as the volume of his voice climbed._

_Mickey urgently tried to shush and placate him. “Alright, I know it sounds a little risky but—”_

_“A little risk—A LITTLE RISKY?!” Ian was climbing out of bed now as Mickey quickly scrambled out of arm’s reach. “You want to—” Ian cleared his throat and reduced his volume to get himself under control. “You want to go with Sal to a guaranteed mob hit, where the two of you are scheduled to die, and try to pull a switcheroo so you can hopefully fake your death and run off?”_

_Mickey’s mouth moved wordlessly for a moment before he nodded. “Well… yeah?”_

_Ian looked at him as if all his brains and good sense were leaking out of his ears.  “You don’t even know how this is supposed to go down! Suppose you’re walking into a trap, suppose they get you on the way?”_

_“You remember when I told you how working girls know shit and you don’t always know who they’re talking to or who’s talking to them? Well, that’s how I know some of the details. And-and the plan’s not totally half-baked either. I’ve been sort of thinking about this since I’ve been in the joint. Nothing to do in solitary but think about ways to escape, you know?”_

_“Here’s a thought,” Ian said, trying to keep his voice even. “There’s a death warrant out there with your name on it. Instead of going to meet it halfway and trying to put one over on the fucking Mob, how about we just grab some shit and get the fuck out of here, Mickey?!”_

_“I can’t just take off—”_

_“Yes, you can! Yes, we fucking can! Even the President is onboard with this. I’ve been trying to explain this to you for months! Let’s just get in your car and go!”_

_“I take off and they go after Mandy and my brothers. I can’t let that happen, Ian. I ‘die’ and the slate gets wiped clean…”_

_“Oh god, oh my fucking god,” Ian covered his face with his hands and paced agitatedly. He couldn’t believe this was happening._

_“Ian, just listen to me. I know it sounds a little insane, but this will work. I know it will, alright?” Mickey said desperately, following Ian around as the other man paced. “This way we get to take off, just get the hell out of here like we’ve been talking about,” Mickey grabbed Ian, forcing him to stop and look at him, “we get to take off like we want; we can start over somewhere else. This way though, I don’t leave my family in a bind. But this can work.”_

_Ian stared at Mickey and wondered how hard he’d have to hit him to knock him out cold long enough to get out of Chicago._

_“Pretty hard,” Mickey answered lightly to Ian’s surprise, “I developed a really thick skull as a means of survival adaptation._

_“How did you—”_

_“You think you’re just thinking it, but you always say shit out loud whenever you get really overwhelmed,” Mickey reminded him, “it’s usually kinda cute when you’re not being homicidal. Ian, I swear to you that I will make this work. After it’s done, I’ll have to go dark for a while until I’m sure the wise guys and the feds buy it and have backed off. I’ll come back and get you the second I know the coast is clear. I promise…” he said sincerely and stroked Ian’s face to soothe and reassure him. “I’ll even be good the whole time,” he promised suggestively and sighed as the worried, green, puppy eyes remained unconvinced. “Let me do this for us.”_

* * *

Ian slid his hand into Mickey’s underwear and massaged his hardened cock. He ran the pad of his thumb from the head, down the length of Mickey’s cock and pressed it against the sensitive perineum, making Mickey arch and moan. “Were you good?”

Mickey’s eyes popped open before he laughed breathlessly. “Seriously? Ten minutes ago you were freaking out that I was burnt toast but you’re already back on that shit?” Mickey huffed and rolled his eyes when Ian raised an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, I was good. You’re gonna give me some kind of complex—making me hold out like that all the time.”

“Stop leaving all the time and you won’t have to hold out,” Ian said softly, avoiding Mickey’s eyes.

“Yeah…” Mickey replied, prompting Ian to look up at him, “okay.”

Soon they were locked together, with Mickey’s legs wrapped tightly around Ian’s thighs as Ian kept the pace slow and scorching. Mickey’s breath stuttered as Ian’s eyes held his and their fingers intertwined. Ian bent his head and sucked on Mickey’s lower lip, initiating their kiss and releasing Mickey’s hand so he could grip the back of Mickey’s thigh and surge deeper inside his boyfriend. Mickey fisted Ian’s hair with one hand and groped his ass with the other, desperately trying to get even closer together.   

It had been too long, and between the feel of Ian inside him and the hot friction of Ian’s body against his cock, Mickey was coming with a grunt and groan against Ian’s lips. He groaned as Ian kept rocking against his prostate and nipping at his shoulder. Ian came amidst Mickey’s broken encouragements and the feel of Mickey’s ass squeezing around him. He slumped atop Mickey while his boyfriend planted kisses in Ian’s hair and on his forehead.

At length, Ian slowly rolled off Mickey and began his clean up routine while Mickey lay sated on the bed. “So, what was it like having sex with a dead man?” Mickey grinned up at him, just to be an ass.

“Like you’re so special; I’ve been having sex with dead guys for years,” Ian said dryly, making Mickey burst out laughing.

“But missed me a little bit though, huh?”

Ian didn’t trust his voice to respond to that for a while, which made his eventual answer embarrassingly unconvincing. “Barely knew you were gone.”

Mickey only smiled and rubbed Ian’s back while Ian fussed over him. “Still, I heard you guys sold the shit out of everything though. Heard Jaime even got Jayne in on the mix.”

Ian looked down at Mickey askance. “You heard all that? You were keeping tabs?”

“Of fucking course I was, are you kidding?”

“How?” Ian asked suspiciously, his eyes boring into a suddenly nervous Mickey, “you weren’t in contact with any of us, so who was keeping you in the loop?”

* * *

_Dre paused his count and looked up as Mickey approached him at the table. It had to be something for Mickey to hunt him down to one of his safe houses, so Dre nodded to his crew to clear the room. Mickey fidgeted impatiently as the young men and women left him and Dre alone. When the coast was clear, Dre looked up at Mickey again._

_“No.”_

_“I haven’t even said anything yet!”_

_Dre finished his count and stacked his money. “I don’t have to even hear. I can tell from the half-crazed look in your eyes that you have hauled your pasty-ass down here to involve me in some insipid white nonsense. Well not today, Satan. You know how much shit I gotta do today?” Dre asked him. Before Mickey could even respond, Dre continued, “I need to go get some re-ups and flip some shit before my dumbass uncle’s ‘out of the hospital’ barbeque tonight. I’m in charge of the jerk chicken and I haven’t even seasoned any of that bitch yet!”_

_“But—”_

_“Yeah, I know you don’t know what that is. That’s when we apply herb and spices and shit to food so it gets some actual flavour! Flavour, I might add, that helped put my dumbass uncle in the hospital in the first place, but he’s demanding more of it, for he is a dumbass!”_

_“But if you would just—”_

_“You think I got time to be fucking with your ass any and every day, all day long? My girlfriend, who fancies herself the next coming of Imelda Marcos, wants me to take her fantasy shoe shopping today. I don’t know what that is! Is it just window shopping? Then she gets mad when I look at her like she’s insane. Plus I have to strong-arm a couple of my dealers who think its sound business sense to skim from me. It’s like the world’s gone mad!”_

_“Dre, just—”_

_“So no, I cannot assist you on whatever half-baked journey quest you’re caught up in right now. Go find someone else to help you throw the ring in the volcano or whatever the fuck y’all do when you’re out of sight, because Dre is busy today!”_

_Mickey coughed politely. “Are you done? Because I need you to help me die today.”_

_Dre was visibly taken aback before his eyes narrowed into a glare and he slowly shook his head. “You are a motherfucking d—”_

_“I can probably get you back in time for the barbeque though,” Mickey offered magnanimously. “I like jerk chicken… spicy.”_

_Mickey quickly explained his plan while Dre listened in disbelief. Dre sniffed when Mickey was done. “See, this is the epitome of white nonsense.”_

_Mickey threw up his hands. “How is that nonsense?! I’m running for my life, as you’ve suggested on numerous occasions!”_

_“Yeah, running! Not going all Ocean’s eleven on a bitch. You ever heard of a brother faking his death to escape from anything. We catch a bullet or we don’t.”_

_“How would you know that no black guy has ever done this? If someone fakes his death and gets away with it, how would you know he did it?”_

_Dre was stymied by the logic. “Man, shut up!” he snapped before getting his things together.”I had shit to do today!”_

_“Thank you for your cooperation. I deeply appreciate—”_

_“Man, kiss my ass!”_

* * *

_Dre released a breath he didn’t know he had been holding when he saw Mickey making his way towards him. From where he had sat parked, Dre could only just make out the sounds of the barrage of gunfire coming from Sandrini’s. As Mickey climbed into the car, an orange glow began to rise against the night sky._

_“You know, they say only the good die young,” Dre told Mickey._

_Mickey grinned back at him, “thank fuck we ain’t good then, right?!”_

_Dre laughed and smoothly pulled away from the curb before the blare of sirens began._

* * *

_Mickey took a steadying breath as Dre led him into the place that would be his new home for the time being. He would be here, stuck and out of touch in South Valley, while Ian and his family sold their grief to the Mob, the Feds and anyone watching. Before long, even Dre was gone, off on his run to fulfil his own duties while he was there in New Mexico. He knew it was for the greater good, but it was the first time in forever that Mickey had felt this cut off and alone, and he miserably wondered how he would survive it._

_“You want some pancakes, baby?” Big Bertha asked him as she got to her feet to head into the kitchen. She was tall, well over six feet and heavyset, and she was under strict orders to kneecap him if his resolved weakened to get out and sneak back home. Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t be a gracious host, and she was a pro at mothering the lost, confused and scared that came her way._

_Mickey hesitated for a moment. “What kind?”_

_Bertha smiled, already well clued in by Dre. “I was thinking I could make a batch of banana ones. You in?”_

_Mickey finally nodded, “yeah, I guess I could eat,” he said. Bertha only smiled wider._

* * *

“Dre?!”

“Now, don’t get all—”

“You were with Dre the whole fucking time, while I was here losing my shit about whether you were even alive or not?! You were hanging out eating pancakes with Dre?!”

“I wasn’t hanging out with Dre,” Mickey quickly tried to explain. It was remarkable how Ian could make a wet wipe look threatening. “I was at a friend of Dre’s mom! And he just dropped me there and came back to get me after we thought things had cooled down. The feds were so far up your asses, there’s no way I could have reached out, but Dre had enough distance on him to see what has happening and clue me in! That’s all.”

“He didn’t even come to your funeral!”

“How can I be offended about that? I wasn’t really dead!” Mickey quickly got up on his knees so he could better face Ian. “Can we not lose focus here and just remember the fact that I have returned from the dead just for you?” he said and nuzzled Ian’s neck. “I’ve come back for ye, my wild Irish rose.”

“Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up, you’re so corny,” Ian huffed half-heartedly. “And stop making jokes about being dead. I’m not ever going to get comfortable with it and the jokes aren’t funny!”

Mickey looked wounded, “they’re a little funny,” he said before tackling a laughing Ian back onto the bed.

It was well after midnight and Ian was still awake, huddled close to Mickey as they lay in the dark of the hotel room. Mickey glanced over at his boyfriend as he stroked Ian’s arm soothingly. Ian was fighting hard against his need to sleep. His medication made it hard enough for him to stay awake right throughout the day sometimes, let alone at night when everything was signalling his body to shut down. Mickey nudged him gently.

“Stop staring at me, creep, and go to sleep already.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know how this story ends already,” Ian responded softly.

“Hmm?”

“You’re dead, I’m grieving and this is like the fiftieth ‘back from the dead’ fantasy I’ve constructed this week,” Ian told him, “you show up, tell me you came back for me and say all manner of encouraging shit to get me to think it’s okay again. Then I fall asleep, wake up and you’re not there anymore.”

“Oh,” Mickey breathed in and rolled onto his side to face a hopelessly earnest Ian. “So what’s the game plan here then exactly? Stay awake staring at me until what?”

“Haven’t quite figured that part out yet.”

“Hmm,” Mickey sniffed again and thoughtfully caressed Ian’s hip before suddenly and unceremoniously yanking hard on Ian’s pubic hair.

Ian did not respond well. He instinctively curled up into a protective ball as he covered his abused genitals and swore up a storm. “Oh you fucking sonuvabitch! I’m going to kill you, you piece of shit! I—”

‘Yeah, hurts don’t it?” Mickey nodded as Ian raged on and flailed about next to him. “Any of your other dream Mickeys bring the pain like that? Shut your maudlin ass up and go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

True to his word, a couple hours later when Ian jerked awake, Mickey was still very much there, and also still very much awake despite his own earlier admonitions to Ian. Ian uncurled from Mickey a little and stretched out next to him.

“You okay?” Ian asked him and Mickey nodded silently. Ian shuffled a little closer, offering Mickey the wordless comfort of his body while Mickey worked through his thoughts. A while later, Mickey spoke softly and shakily into the quiet darkness of the room.

“Sal’s gone,” Mickey whispered hoarsely, sounding bereft and lost.

Ian sighed and kissed Mickey’s temple as he stroked his face. “Yeah, I know.”

* * *

_Despite his assurances to Ian, it felt like a small miracle to Mickey that he had managed to get back to Sandrini’s before Big Tony and his boys. Maybe Tony was trying to give him as much time as possible to change his mind and run. After his talk with Ian, Mickey was feeling the pressure more than ever to just follow Tony’s advice after all and just get the hell out of there. Well, he intended to anyway; he just had to do some fancy footwork first._

_“Why’s it so fucking warm in here?” Sal complained. Mickey’s eyes flicked towards the heater while he checked on the unknown Milkovich. They hadn’t had a chance to turn the heat back down to normal and it was almost stifling hot in there._

_“Summer’s not going out without a fight,” Mickey explained instead and loaded up a couple glasses with ice while Sal suffered under the heat and stress of the moment._

_He stared at his boss for a moment and tried to wrap his mind around what could happen within the next hour or so. His mind was set on the plan and he needed to keep his focus on the big picture. Yet, this was Sal, the man he’d loved and loathed for a lifetime, and at the end of it all, Mickey still needed to know._

_“When you told me that this is all there was, that this is all we were good for… did you really mean that or were you just saying that to keep us here?”_

_Mickey could tell Sal was startled by the question. What’s more, he could see that it was one of the things Sal had probably never thought about. Sal had annexed the lives of the Milkoviches and hadn’t given it a second thought beyond that day. It was so typical of Sal, it almost made Mickey laugh. To the aging gangster’s credit, he appeared to take the question seriously._

_“Who even knows anymore? It’s true for me, it’s true for you, maybe. What does it even matter now anyway?”_

_It mattered because for the longest time, Mickey thought he’d live and eventually die by Sal’s orders and opinions. The potential paradigm shift that Ian introduced had thrown him for a loop and he still couldn’t quite get a handle on it. It mattered because at the end of the day, despite the decay and corruption of the man Mickey thought Sal had been—had hoped he would be—Sal’s word was still Mickey’s law, and it was a hard habit to break._

_“I met someone…” Mickey began to explain and poured out his heart one last time to the man he might follow into the grave._

_“You know what you turn into when you go around trying to please people and be who they think you can be? A disappointment… that’s what you turn into.”_

_Sal’s words had shaken him to his core. They sounded prescient and foreboding and Mickey tried to blink away the sting of them. Mickey didn’t know how he could handle the day when that light Ian had in his eyes for him might fade. They were young and stupid, and Ian looked at him now like he hung the moon, and Mickey was just hopeless enough to believe when Ian said he was far more than what he thought he was._

_Would he keep trying and failing the way Sal had, while Ian grew angry, lonely and desperate just like Linda? If it was true for Sal, would it be true for him? He had been brought up and moulded in Sal’s image, and he might be a little faster and smarter and a little slicker than his boss, but did he really have a prayer of walking the straight and narrow any better than Sal could? Even now as he sat staring at his glass, his plan felt like it was already coming apart, with holes in it big enough for Tony to drive a truck right through. What the hell was he doing?_

_“I shoulda done better by you,” Sal said. “I mean I saw potential in you for this life, but maybe there was potential there for other shit too. I don’t fucking know.”_

_It was a hell of a thing to hear from Salvatore Boerio and Mickey hated it a little that even now, after everything, the hesitant, begrudging words would fan that small flame of hope inside of him._

_“We’re going to die here tonight,” Mickey finally told him and was again surprised by Sal’s stoicism._

_“You’re supposed to take off.”_

_“I could,” Mickey said, “but where Salvatore Boerio goes, so does Mickey Milkovich, right? I wouldn’t leave you alone.”  And he meant it, because after everything, despite it all, he wanted to be there at Sal’s side at the end of it and because in more ways than one Mickey Milkovich had to die tonight._

_The flash of lights and the sounds of cars approaching made Sal gasp sharply and Mickey could see the nerve bleeding out of his boss rapidly. “Just because we’re gonna go out doesn’t mean we gotta go quietly right?” he asked Sal, trying to bolster the older man._

_To Sal’s credit, he seemed to rally, even though his hand shook as he gripped the gun Mickey gave him. “I don’t want to see it coming, Mickey. I can’t—”_

_Mickey knew that, because he knew who Salvatore really was despite all the things he tried to be and all the idols he tried to emulate. Sal wasn’t Gotti, with the charm and the dapper style; he wasn’t Capone with the ambition and leadership; and he certainly wasn’t Tony Montana, ready to go out in a violent blaze of glory. He was Sal, gregarious and kind as he was inept and selfish, who had, whatever his motives, taken a bunch of kids out of the filthy gutter even while he feared disease and decay. He was probably never going to die a happy old man, warm in his bed, but he’d hoped that he would never see his own death coming. As a last service to the man who had raised him, Mickey made sure he never did._

_The silenced gun still popped loudly in Sandrini’s even though Sal and the men gathering outside never heard it. Sal slumped forward heavily, though he still clung to his gun, blood already starting to flow from his wounds. Mickey half-expected him to get up and start roaring at him for fucking up his suit, but Dre was right—not even Salvatore at his most mythical was going to walk away from two to the back of the head._

_Mickey dragged his eyes from Sal’s lifeless form as he heard the men start to approach outside. The adrenaline was starting to pump through his veins. It was now or never and he had to move quickly. He dropped the pistol and grabbed the two submachine guns he still had strapped to him. Just as Johnnie Boy approached the window, Mickey started firing indiscriminately, stepping backwards as he sprayed the door and windows with suppressive fire and the men scrambled for cover outside._

_Within seconds he was out of ammunition and he quickly tossed the guns towards the dead man behind the bar and bolted for the rear of Sandrini’s. He just made it to the hidden door when the world seemed to explode around him as Tony and his goons lit up the bar with gunfire. Mickey slid into the passageway and shoved the heavy door shut as the gunfire ceased._

_He weaved his way down the narrow passageway, following the same path that countless partygoers had taken to escape the police during Prohibition. If Tony didn’t buy the body upstairs or that there had been only two of them there, then there was a good chance someone would be following him down that passageway in a moment. A lot of the older wise guys knew the hidden passageways for Sandrini’s just as well as he and his siblings did, so Mickey waited until he was near his exit before he started stripping._

_He quickly changed out of his cumbersome suit and switched to the clothes he had stashed there earlier. He gathered everything up, leaving nothing to be discovered later, and finally emerged into the night air, several blocks from the bar. He weaved through the back alleys as he made the winding way to the meeting point he and Dre had worked out. He paused at an oil drum fire and tossed his clothes, only saving the red tie at the last second for Ian. None of the bums there questioned his actions, but simply huddled back around it when Mickey took off again._

_Dre was just where he said he would be and soon they were off, heading south towards New Mexico while Mickey prayed the Feds and the Mob bought that he was a dead man. His plan was only halfway done and the enormity of what he’d done so far settled on him as the car sped on. Now he just needed Ian to wait for him, then he’d be back to get him and they’d take their shot. Maybe an uneducated, escaped gangster and a mentally ill, army washout didn’t have a prayer of making it together out there. All the same, Mickey would come back, then they would make a run for it and they would try because they deserved beautiful things too._


	36. You got a fast car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love and support, you guys. It's been real. ♥

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _You got a fast car_  
>  _I want a ticket to anywhere_  
>  _Maybe we make a deal_  
>  _Maybe together we can get somewhere_  
>  _Any place is better_  
>  _Starting from zero got nothing to lose_  
>  _Maybe we'll make something_  
>  _Me myself I got nothing to prove_
> 
>  _You got a fast car_  
>  _I got a plan to get us out of here_  
>  _I been working at the convenience store_  
>  _Managed to save just a little bit of money_  
>  _Won't have to drive too far_  
>  _Just 'cross the border and into the city_  
>  _You and I can both get jobs_  
>  _And finally see what it means to be living_
> 
> _-Tracy Chapman (You got a fast car)_

Ian wasn’t surprised to find that he was alone in bed when he awoke the next morning. He had reached out and found only empty sheets were Mickey should have been. Naturally, the dream had to end at some point. He sighed deeply and buried his face deeper into his pillow only to get startled by the sound of the bathroom door opening. He looked up abruptly, blinking rapidly as Mickey—now beardless—exited the bathroom and shut the door quickly and firmly behind him.

“You, um, might want to give it a minute,” Mickey warned before looking at Ian askance as his boyfriend gaped back at him and stared owlishly around the motel room. “What? Why are you looking at me like that? Is it because I dumped the beard? I’ll put it back on before we—” Mickey trailed off as he examined Ian’s expression more closely. “For fuck’s sake, seriously?!” Mickey snorted when he connected the dots. “Do you need me to come over there and yank on your pubes again?”

Ian shook his head as he struggled to sit up on the edge of the bed. “Nah, I’m good; it’s fine,” he yawned, and tiredly rubbed his hands over his face. “It’s just… it’s early.”

“Then what are you waking up for already?” Mickey said softly as he rubbed Ian’s bowed head and dropped a kiss on top of it. He reached for his pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and tossed it back with a grunt when he found it empty. “Sun’s not even up.”

“What are you doing up then?” Ian asked, lifting his head out of his hands to look up at Mickey.

“Eh, I can sleep when I’m dead.” Naturally, that earned him a baleful glare and Mickey only grinned back in response. “But, hey, I wanted to talk to you.”

Ian made a small noise of dissent and reached for Mickey instead, hooking his finger in the waist of Mickey’s boxers and tugging the man towards him. “Don’t want to talk right now,” he murmured as he pressed his face against Mickey’s abdomen and ran his hands up the back of his boyfriend’s thighs. He nipped at Mickey’s hip as he tugged down Mickey’s boxers and slid off the bed to get to his knees.

Mickey sucked in his breath through his teeth as Ian’s tongue trailed up his cock and the moist heat engulfed him. He fisted a hand in Ian’s hair and rested the other on Ian’s shoulder to steady himself as he grew hard in Ian’s mouth and warmed to the slow, steady pace.

“I thought Folgers was supposed to be the best part of waking up,” Mickey teased shakily as Ian sucked him in deeper. He ignored Ian’s warning glance. “So you’re just going to skip the coffee and go right for the—”

“I swear to god, Mickey,” Ian gargled before pulling away, “if you make some goddamned milk or cream or whatever the fuck joke I know you want to make, you will lose your dick, right here, right now!”  Ian threatened and Mickey clamped his mouth shut, though the unholy smirk did not look promising. “You tell the worst fucking dick jokes!”

“You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” Mickey murmured beneath his breath only to burst out laughing when Ian clamped down hard on his ankles. “I didn’t say anything though! I didn’t say anything!” He then ran his hands soothingly through Ian’s hair. “Love you,” he sang.

“Jackass,” Ian grumbled before shooting Mickey another glare even while he resumed sucking on Mickey’s hardened cock.

Mickey sighed as the moment was restored and he fell under the spell of Ian’s tongue laving his cock and the feel of Ian’s hand squeezing his shaft and fondling him. “I really missed you,” he whispered thickly and Ian hummed in reply, making Mickey’s knees go weak. He thrust into Ian’s mouth as he gripped Ian’s hair, feeling that familiar, sweet, aching pressure build. He shuddered at the feel of Ian’s tongue sliding across the slit of his cock and impulsively thrust a few more times against the back of Ian’s throat. Ian allowed it once more before pulling away.

“You’re being really demanding right now,” Ian said softly as he nipped at Mickey’s hip again and got to his feet.

Mickey’s pulse and breath quickened at the sound of Ian’s voice. He recognized that change in its depth and cadence, and when their lips met, there was no mistaking the aggression behind Ian’s kiss. Mickey responded eagerly, pushing back with an answering grunt as Ian roughly grabbed and palmed his ass. When Ian turned them around and tossed him onto the bed, Mickey let out a short, husky laugh as he quickly shuffled back against the pillows.

Ian stripped off his boxers and climbed in after Mickey. As he crawled over, Mickey automatically reached for him, but Ian captured his hands instead and pinned them above Mickey’s head.  Ian kept Mickey trapped with one hand as he leaned in to resume their kiss, careful to keep his body well clear of Mickey’s. He trailed his free hand down Mickey’s torso until he was grasping Mickey’s cock and pumping it slowly. Mickey writhed beneath him; desperate for the full body contact he was being denied.

“I don’t even have any of your toys here,” Ian said lowly after he broke their kiss. He gently massaged Mickey’s frenulum with the pad of his thumb, making Mickey gasp and arch into his grasp. “I bet you really miss those. See, if you had let me know you were coming…” he chastised softly before dipping his head to suck lightly on Mickey’s nipple while he pumped faster. “What did you miss the most?” Ian asked him, “was it the beads?” he continued, “I know how much you love those. That’s your favourite, right?”

Despite Ian’s restraint, Mickey shifted his body towards Ian and used his knee to rub against Ian’s erection. “That’s my favourite.”

Ian grinned as he settled down alongside Mickey. “Good answer.” He didn’t release Mickey’s hands, but he pressed close, tangling his legs with Mickey’s and sucking hungrily on his neck as he continued to jerk him off. He trailed kisses along Mickey’s jaw line as he moved on top of him, happy and relieved to see and touch Mickey’s clean shaven face—yet another piece of confirmation that this was all real.

“Ian,” Mickey gasped and Ian heeded the warning to ease up before it was over too quickly for them both. He finally released Mickey’s hands and got up to sit astride him. “You’re teasing me,” Mickey accused before his breath hitched as Ian ground slowly against him.

“Never,” Ian assured him, his smirk unholy as he ground against Mickey again.

“Then why aren’t you on me yet?”

Ian didn’t answer. Instead he idly stroked Mickey’s face, trailing his finger along the smooth jaw line and down Mickey’s throat. As his hand rested on Mickey’s throat, he could feel the tell-tale, excited twitch of Mickey’s body beneath his and Mickey’s racing pulse under his thumb.

“I don’t want to play that game yet,” Ian admitted quietly after a moment’s hesitation; the sheepish apology clear in his voice as he pulled his hand away. “I not… I’m not trying to be weird about—”

“You wanna chit-chat or you wanna get on me?” Mickey asked bluntly, cutting Ian off. He moved suddenly, flipping Ian onto his back so he could pin him down and look him in the eyes. “It doesn’t matter how you want to do it as long as you’re doing it to me, alright?” he said softly.

He raised his eyebrow suggestively as Ian stared up at him and just managed to flash a successful grin before Ian grabbed him and crashed their lips together. They kissed hungrily as they frotted against each other; reclaiming the urgent mood that had been broken. They grunted as Ian shoved Mickey onto his back once again and fumbled for the lube on the nightstand.

“Hurry up,” Mickey demanded, even as he hampered Ian’s efforts by wrapping his legs tightly around Ian’s thighs and tangled his fingers in Ian’s hair.

“Wait,” Ian ordered and pulled back so he could kneel between Mickey’s thighs. He quickly slicked his cock with the lube and squeezed out a generous amount onto his fingers before tossing it aside. He paused for a moment to take in the picture Mickey made, lying flushed, naked and hard before him. Mickey was onto him.

“Don’t you dare,” Mickey told him, “don’t you dare do that shit now!”

Ian only smirked and obligingly pushed a coated finger inside his boyfriend that left Mickey gasping. He pumped Mickey’s cock as his fingers scissored deep inside Mickey, purposely brushing against his prostate and rhythmically squeezing the tip of Mickey’s cock until Mickey was a writhing mess. Ian almost laughed when Mickey used the heel of his foot to smack against his ass.

“Fuck me already!”

 Ian mounted him slowly, taking his time despite Mickey’s impatience to just bury himself and get lost in the heat of it. He watched Mickey’s lips part and the blue eyes flutter closed as Ian sank into him. He was still for a moment, savouring the feel of the tight heat surrounding him and the sound of their harsh, mingled breathing. He then pulled back before surrendering to the wild need driving them both. Ian let Mickey pull him down until their bodies were flush against each other. He gripped the back of Mickey’s thigh as he drove into him, their grunts and groans stifled as they kissed feverishly. Mickey convulsed around Ian’s cock as he clawed at Ian’s back deep enough for even his blunted fingernails to leave trails.

“Ah, fuck you,” Ian laughed as the pain registered with the pleasure.

“Yeah, fuck me,” Mickey growled back, “do it hard.”

He fisted his hand in Mickey’s hair in answer to the challenge and yanked Mickey’s head as he moved harder and faster into him. He kissed, sucked and bit at Mickey’s shoulders, his neck and lips, revelling in Mickey’s taste and the coppery tang of the blood from Mickey’s lip. Ian almost felt dizzy. The slow, searching lovemaking of the night before had felt so surreal, like the countless dreams he’d had before that had ended in crushing reality. Now the passion, pleasure and pain all came together to confirm how real it all was. They were there together, alive and well, and determined to leave as many marks on each other as possible. Mickey sank his teeth into Ian’s shoulder and dug his fingers into his boyfriend’s backside as he came hotly against Ian’s stomach. Ian groaned deeply as he felt Mickey pulse around him and buried his face in Mickey’s neck as he rode the waves of his own orgasm.

They crashed back to Earth, panting, and Ian managed to roll so they could lie next to each other and struggle to catch their breath. Ian stared up dazedly at the ceiling before he started laughing, causing Mickey to follow suit.

“Weirdo,” Mickey murmured affectionately as Ian rolled onto his side to face him. He stared at Ian’s flushed face and trailed his thumb over Ian’s burnished stubble. “Have I ever told you how rough you are in the morning?” he teased lightly before sucking on the cut on his lower lip.

Ian’s eyes were immediately drawn to it. “Sorry—”

Mickey rolled his eyes at him. “Don’t be… Boy Scout,” he said softly and watched as Ian’s eyes grew soft and the rest of his energy drained out of him. Ian had had a fitful night. “It’s still early, you should go back to sleep. I’m right here.”

This time Ian didn’t argue and was soon fast asleep.

* * *

 

Mickey blinked awake and took a moment to get his bearings in the unfamiliar motel room. Strong sunlight was peeping in through the curtains, alerting him to the lateness of the morning. He sat up abruptly, jolting out of Ian’s embrace and making the other stir grumpily. “What time is it?” Mickey asked the room.

“It’s still early,” Ian complained and pulled the sheets over his head.

“‘Still early’ isn’t an actual time, Ian,” Mickey pointed out and grabbed Ian’s watch from the nightstand. “Shit, it’s after nine.”

“See, it’s still early,” a muffled voice came from beneath the sheets.

“Half the morning’s gone already. I’ve got stuff to do today—can’t let the day get away from me. Going to go shower,” Mickey said and got out of bed. He paused to look back at the six foot lump still wrapped up in the sheets. “What, no offers to come with?”

“Still sleeping!” Ian grumbled and Mickey only laughed and left him alone.

Ian was finally sitting up by the time Mickey emerged from the bathroom. The latter had showered and firmly reapplied his beard. Ian seemed unenthused by the change.

“Come on, don’t look at me like that. I have to go out for a bit and I need a disguise, just in case. It’s just until I get across the border anyway,” Mickey told him. “What, you don’t think I look good with a beard?”

Ian snorted loudly. “You know that’s not it. I just like seeing your face, even though it’s dumb,” Ian sniffed, sounding far too much like Mandy for a moment, “and I just got it back and you’re covering it up in whatever the hell that is.”

“I’ll have you know this beard is top of the line—Hollywood quality shit. Anyway, it’s just for a few days more,” Mickey reminded him as he tugged on his jeans.

Ian rubbed at his face and tried to get his blood flowing. He managed to yank on his boxers before sitting heavily back onto the bed. “I guess I have to get stuff ready too then, right? How much time do we have? What’s the timetable?”

“Oh yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Mickey said hesitantly and Ian raised a curious eyebrow. “I’ve been thinking…”

Ian groaned loudly. “Oh god, no—no thinking. I can’t deal when you start ‘thinking.’ Your thoughts give me… what’s that word mob guys use?”

“Agita?” Mickey said with a soft smile.

“Agita, that’s it! Your thoughts give me agita. The last thought you had involved double-crossing the mob and playing dead very convincingly. Before that, your thoughts had us breaking up like every other minute. Can we just postpone thinking for a while?”

“Ian…”

Ian sighed loudly. “Fine,” he capitulated ungraciously, rested his elbow on his knee and propped up his jaw. “Let’s hear your thoughts.” He could already tell from Mickey’s nervous fidgeting that he was in for a doozy.

“So I was thinking that I know this has all been kind of crazy, right?” Mickey began, plucking awkwardly at his pants, “I mean it’s been crazy since the day we met, but I really mean this last part. It’s all been pretty sudden and I know I didn’t give you a whole lot of time to, you know, sort things out, I guess?” he continued, “what I’m saying is that even though it’s not the Witness Protection Program or whatever, it’s still fucking far away from everyone and everything, and it’s still being careful and giving all this shit up,” Mickey said, glancing at an increasingly sceptical looking Ian, “It’s just a really huge move and I don’t know if maybe you might want to take some more time? I can’t hang around the city, but I could go on ahead and maybe if and when you’re ready you could—ow, OW! Ian, no, seriously, the glue is really strong!”

Despite his pleas, Ian was not about to let go of Mickey’s beard. So when Ian pulled, Mickey had no choice but to follow until he was on his knees between Ian’s legs. Only then did Ian loosen his death grip on Mickey’s face.

“Are you fucking kidding me with this shit right now?” Ian demanded. “You’re having second thoughts, now, at this point?”

“ _I’m_ not having second thoughts!” Mickey rebutted quickly, “I just want you to be sure, so if you need some more time—”

“How much goddamned time do you think I would need?! We’ve been dreaming about this since the first damn time we went for a ride in your stupid, goddamned car!” Ian raged. “It takes me five seconds to make life-altering decisions! It’s been a whole fucking year!”

“I don’t want you to make a mistake!”

“What kind of fucking mistake is there to make?! I can’t believe you right now! You put me through all this shit just to—”

“I don’t want us to be Sal and Linda!” Mickey yelled back and Ian was visibly thrown for a loop. He blinked at Mickey, who sighed and explained sombrely, “I don’t want you to take this massive gamble on me and leave everything behind only to realize that I won’t be able to hack it. I don’t… I don’t want you to be disappointed,” he confessed softly, “I just want you to be sure.”

Ian stared back dumbfounded before he snorted a laugh and swiped his hand across his face. “Oh my god, you’re so real,” Ian laughed, “I’m so sure now. Not even your ghost could be this freaking aggravating.” Ian sighed and sobered up when he could see Mickey’s anxiety was real and present. He crossed his legs at the ankles, holding Mickey there and tugged his head up so he could look Mickey in the eyes. “We are not Sal and Linda, Mickey. We could never be Sal and Linda, and frankly it’s a little insane that you’d even worry about that.

Linda had no idea who Sal was when she bought that bill of goods he was selling,” he said, “and Sal was just…” Ian shook his head as he searched for the words to describe the fallen man. “Look, Mick, I know you’re scared that you’re like him, or that you’re only what he said you were, but you have to believe me, you are nothing like Sal and all the bullshit he told you is just that—bullshit. You said it yourself, remember with the painting he destroyed? It’s the same with you. If you let me, I’ll help you see that too.

As for me being disappointed; ugh, shut up,” Ian sniffed. “Linda had no idea who Sal really was until it felt like it was too late for her, but I know who you are,” Ian assured him. “You never lied to me about who you really are, and I know what I’m committing to here. So stop trying to manage my expectations here because I already fully understand the situation.”

“It’s really major though,” Mickey reminded him quietly.

“It’s really fucking major,” Ian agreed, “and you’re scared, which is fine because I’m scared too. And yes, it really sucks that we have to go so far away from our families and friends and everything and I’m sad about it, but the worst thing that I could possibly imagine happened just a little while ago and I had to live through an entire month of it and I don’t intend to do it again. So even at the cost of everything else, I don’t want to be without you, Mickey. I don’t want to be away from you. If you need to go, then I need to be with you. It is what it is; you’re stuck with me.”

“You hate being stuck,” Mickey murmured as he rubbed idly at Ian’s thigh.

“Yeah, well you’re the exception that proves the rule,” Ian said as he leaned forward to rest his forehead against Mickey’s. “So again, how much time do we have?”

“Can you get ready in a couple of days?”

“Yeah,” Ian nodded, “but I’ll need some help.”

* * *

 

Alex sorted the last shirt with the rest of the clothing and cast a critical eye over her room. She then looked over at Ian who was leaning against her window, frowning at his phone as he waited for a text to come in. His phone chimed and he smiled softly, his shoulders sagging a little as the tension drained out of them.

“Checking in with Mickey?” she asked him and Ian snorted at the question.

“It’s not ‘checking in,’” he replied, “checking in makes it sound like cute, reasonable behaviour. “I’ve been here for, what, two hours? I’ve texted him fifteen times,” he said with a bitter twist of his mouth. “It’s not ‘checking in’; it’s pretty much harassment at this point.”

Alex frowned at him. “Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself. Two days ago, you legitimately thought he was dead. You’re just acclimatizing. Once you get more used to him being back, the compulsion to check in all the time should go away.”

Ian shook his head, not comforted by Alex’s reassurances. “It’s not just that,” he mumbled to himself before addressing her again. “You know this morning he asked me if I needed more time to think about leaving with him. He was freaking out a little about what a major move this is for both of us and he didn’t want me to make a mistake. He’s scared I’ll take a gamble on him and he’ll disappoint me and I’ll end up regretting it.”

“Oh no,” Alex laughed, “you poor babies.”

“Yeah, you can imagine how I responded to that,” Ian said with a wry smile. “I wound up giving him this whole epic speech about us belonging together and knowing how I feel and pretty much told him he’s stuck with me,” he continued. “But Jesus, Allie, look at me. This is me, even and stable and being the best me possible and I’m here quietly losing my shit because I’m genuinely afraid that my boyfriend’s going to dissolve into the ether if I’m not looking at him. What am I going to end up putting him through? He’s worried we’ll become Sal and Linda and I’m worried we’ll turn into _The Shining_.”

“Ian…”

“No, but he’s amazing and he’s wonderful and he’s ridiculously patient,” Ian ploughed on, “so I’ll be optimistic and give him a whole two years of the magic that is the Ian Clayton Gallagher experience before he dumps me in the woods somewhere and runs for the hills,” he joked grimly. “You know what the problem here is? When I’m with him, I forget. He makes me feel sane and whole, you know? It’s not until I’m away from him sometimes that I remember what I am.”

Alex walked over to stand before him. “Ian, who you are, is an amazing guy who is living with bipolar disorder. It’s you and like six million other people in America; over fifty million if you’re going to talk about just mental illness in general. Everyone’s experience is unique, but we’re all in the same boat. It makes life harder for us and harder for the people who care about us, but we’re not some impossible math equation no one can solve. You’re not some baffling, burdensome puzzle Mickey has to endure until he figures out a way to solve you or ditch you. You’re a person who deserves love, happiness and people to care about you just like anyone else in the world. And yeah, I had my doubts about Mickey, but I’m a hundred percent sure that all he sees is the guy he loves and wants to build his life with. Whatever happens, I’m pretty sure you guys can handle it together, right?” Alex asked him as she smacked her hands against his chest and shoved him a bit.

“Look, you’re having your own little freak out here about what a big move this is and, honestly, it would be weird if you didn’t because it’s a big freaking move. And I know we’ve been burnt pretty badly by the people who claim to love us so it’s kind of hard to trust people won’t always bail when things get hard, but I think if we protect ourselves too much from the suck that can happen, we might end up missing out on some beautiful things. Plus you and Mickey are solid, right? Right?!” she said, shaking Ian until he laughed.

“Yeah…”

“See? In any case, Mickey’s a big boy. Let him determine what he can handle. Don’t protect him from monsters and shit that aren’t there,” she instructed and pulled Ian into a hug. “Come here, idiot,” she said, hugging him close and soothing him. “And don’t get snot on my cashmere sweater,” she said. Ian laughed again and sniffled loudly for extra measure before he pulled away. “Better?”

“Yeah… thanks.”

“No problem; get it while it’s free,” she joked as she went back to sorting through the gifts on her bed. “If you had let me know about this whole insane plot, maybe I could have helped you keep it together while Mickey was gone,” she couldn’t resist some censure. “I’m still not over the shock yet.”

Ian smiled apologetically. “Sorry, it’s just that Mickey said the less people to know, the better. Besides, when the whole thing went down, I was so convinced something had gone horribly wrong, it felt like the truth anyway. The next time someone close to me fakes their death, I’ll make sure to let you know.”

“You better,” she said before taking stock of her room once again. “Jesus, I can’t believe how much stuff is here.”

Alex’s bedroom had been transformed into sugar daddy central. All the gifts Ian had amassed during his relationship with Sal had been gathered up and sorted—clothes, shoes, jewellery, electronics, colognes—almost everything Sal had lavished on his young lover. Alex and Ian had spent the past couple of hours sorting everything according to their game plan, covering Alex’s room in the process. The sheer amount was staggering.

“I can’t believe I was holding this much stuff for you.”

“Say what you want about Sal, but you can’t say he wasn’t generous,” Ian said wryly and dug into his backpack for a small box. “Mickey kept most of the receipts for the stuff Sal made him buy. The time is already up for some of the stuff, but we should be able to return a bunch.”

“Yeah, perks of shopping high-end: insanely awesome return policies,” Alex nodded, “if you and Mandy can’t get cash back, get gift cards if you like the stuff they offer. If not, just bring them back and we’ll pawn the rest. Anything you’re definitely keeping?”

“Just the laptop, the phone and the cologne… Everything else goes.”

“Even the watch?”

“Fuck yeah,” Ian said and slipped it off. “It’s worth a fortune and Mickey already dumped his in the fire. We can be watch buddies with something more reasonable. It’s probably bad mojo anyway. Okay, so hopefully it won’t take too long to get all the returns done. We can get back and maybe hit some pawnshops in the Southside.”

“Um, no, no Southside pawnshops, Ian!” Alex sniffed, “you’re not fencing a TV you stole to get your next hit or so you can make a down payment on milk and diapers.”

“Wow… if I hadn’t literally stolen and fenced stuff before to feed my family, I would be so offended right now.”

“Just saying, you want as much as you can back for this and you’re going get ripped off twice as hard in the Southside—North side pawnshops and loan offices only.”

“Alright then, Mandy and I will—”

“Okay, so don’t be offended—”

“Seriously, what now, what, they can smell the poverty and unprivileged upbringings on us or something?!”

“Actually… yeah,” Alex said with an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, but this is kind of rich bitch territory and you need all the money we can get out of this.”

“Mickey said two days, Alex! We’re probably going to end up pawning most of this stuff. You need some kind of help.”

“Already on it,” she said proudly, “when Gandalf calls for aid, Ronan will answer!” she said chirpily until she noticed Ian’s judgemental headshake. “What, I didn’t say that right?”

“You poser, have you even watched one of those movies from start to finish?”

“Each of them is like ninety hours, Ian, and they make no goddamned sense!” Alex hissed. “Why couldn’t they have just called one of those eagle- Übers from the very beginning?!” Alex’s rant was cut off by the doorbell.

“Is that ‘Ronan’?” Ian asked dryly.

Alex skipped to the door and opened it to catch Trish in mid-head toss. Her supermodel reveal was somewhat marred by the fact that Mandy was behind her, grumpily flailing her arms after being swatted in the face by Trish’s tresses, while another third of her audience was too busy being distracted by his phone.

“He’s at the corner store getting cigarettes,” Ian informed them all, smiling brightly with relief then frowning. “God, he smokes like a chimney,” he said, “I’m going to have to address this at some point, aren’t I? I mean not now, when he’s under all this stress, but yeah, once we settle down, he’s quitting,” he said with conviction and wandered back into the bedroom.

At least there was one person properly appreciative of Trish’s presence. “So pretty,” Alex burbled goofily and Trish smiled with satisfaction. That would do for now.

* * *

 

Jaime sat with his brother in one of the many empty, crumbling facades in the Southside. Jaime looked out across the neighbourhood, watching as a bunch of kids pulled a sleight of hand trick to rob a milk truck and coolly walk away with the driver none the wiser. It made him smile. When he and Tony were that age, they had just robbed it at gun point, with stupid masks and shaking hands. He looked over at his brother who was dozing off in the sunlight.

“Hey,” Jaime called out, kicking at Tony’s feet. “Ay, was watching the news last night. That thing over on 49th—that was you?”

“Yeah,” Tony smiled proudly, “you could see one of my signatures, right?”

“Yeah, but you better cool it with that ‘signature’ shit before the cops start thinking you’re the next Son of Sam or something.”

“I know, I know,” Tony sighed and looked over at his brother, “so when are you coming in with me to Big Tony? You know he’ll take you in. Weird as fuck doing this shit on my own all the time.”

“Eh, I’m on vacation. I’m exploring my options right now.”

“Bullshit,” Tony snorted, “what fucking option? We bust heads; Big Tony’s got heads to bust. It’s a no brainer—at least by the time we’re done.”

“I don’t have the driving passion for head-busting the way you do,” Jaime replied. “Maybe it’s time I make use of some of my other skills.”

“Bullshit you’ve got other skills. What the fuck else can you do?”

“Hey, hey, don’t be disparaging of me just because your lonely ass misses me and wants company.”

Tony blinked at his brother. “Disparaging? That’s the word for today?”

“Yeah, means to look down on something or to talk shit about it.”

“Disparaging,” Tony repeated under his breath, feeling the word out. “Well I’m not being disparaging if these so-called skills of yours are actually fallacious,” he said triumphantly, incorporating the word of the previous day.

“‘Actually fallacious’ sounds like some kind of oxymoron,” Jaime sniffed before he was distracted by a figure approaching the building. “The Ghost Who Walks is coming.”

A moment later, Mickey had made his way to them. He pulled back the hood of his jacket and immediately started complaining about the weather while revealing his newly bearded face to his amused brothers.

“It’s colder than Eskimo pussy already and it’s not even fucking winter yet,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, a most excellent time to move to balmy Canada,” Tony teased.

“At least his face is ready for it,” Jaime continued, “when did this happen?” he said, waving a hand over his face.

“Never mind that,” Mickey said, “I’m gonna take off in a couple of days.”

“No shit? Is this where we all get together and sing ‘it’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday’?” Tony offered.

“No, this is where I give you a list of everybody who’s into me and you go collect,” Mickey replied as he fished into his pocket. “My untimely death is no reason not to pay their debt in a timely manner.”

“Ah, I see what you did there,” Jaime nodded, “like just because you’re six feet under doesn’t mean their debt is buried.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and pinched his nose while his brothers were off and punning. It was Tony’s turn to take a stab at it. “Just because you went up in flames doesn’t mean that… wait, I lost it.”

“Will you two please?” Mickey said, exasperated, “the morning’s already gone. Go find these losers before they spend all my money.”

“Alright, alright,” Jaime said, examining the list as he and Tony got to their feet. “What are you going to do?”

“Gonna head up to the house for a bit; hang with Iggy and Joey.”

“Head back to your motel soon though,” Tony warned as they readied to leave, “that rug of yours isn’t that transformative. We’ll bring the stuff to you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey murmured before protesting half-heartedly when Jaime suddenly ruffled his hair and pulled him into a hug before shoving him towards Tony.

“Go chill out; we’ll bring you some Mickey D’s later,” Jaime said before remembering to pass on a message. “Oh, by the way, Jaynie says hi and that she misses you and that there are a couple of pint-size assholes at school who’ve been giving her a hard time. So if you wouldn’t mind eating their brains or fucking up their dreams or something—she’s a little unclear about the whole dead but not really dead thing,” he explained to his brothers.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mickey laughed.

“I offered to fuck the little shits up myself, but I get the impression that now she has a zombie uncle, I’m not scary enough for her anymore,” Jaime lamented.

“That’s a harsh moment for any father to face,” Tony shook his head in sympathy.

“I would really love to make it to Canada before the border freezes over.”

“We’re going, we’re going. Go back to your motel, Mikhail,” Tony tossed back as they left, “the Southside doesn’t take too kindly to dead people either.”

* * *

 

Mickey found his other brothers milling about the kitchen of their Southside home, slapping at each other’s hands and giggling goofily. He grunted his greeting at them and headed for the fridge. “What were you two planning on doing today?” he asked them after he had retrieved a beer. Iggy and Joey both shrugged and followed him to the dining table.

“I was gonna drop a Cialis and stroke it,” Iggy told him breezily.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” Joey asked him.

“So? A man needs some alone time once in a while,” Iggy shot back, “plus with Lisa, you also need some time to heal.”

“That’s true, totally, you’re right,” Both Mickey and Joey murmured in empathetic agreement. Mickey then clicked his tongue at Joey and tossed a bunch of keys at him.

“What’s this?”

“What the fuck does it look like? It’s the keys to the Impala,” Mickey said, “I’m only taking one car with me; might as well leave this one to you.”

Joey’s face lit up like a firework. “Are you serious?!”

“Don’t make a thing out of it,” Mickey said, fidgety and red-faced, “it’s not like I’m going to find a buyer for it on this kind of short notice. Just don’t grind the gears, alright? And any problems you take her to Tommy alone, nobody else, got that?”

Joey nodded eagerly and beamed gratefully at his brother, embarrassing the latter even further until Iggy chimed in. “So what the fuck am I getting?”

“What the fuck else do you need? You already took over my whole damn room,” Mickey retorted, “you do know I’m not actually dead, right? I don’t have to will shit to you!”

“So, Mick,” Joey began, nervously fiddling with his keys and cutting into his brothers’ squabble, “you’re really not going to run shit anymore?”

Mickey was momentarily taken aback by the question. “No, how can I? I mean we can still talk whenever and I’ll still help sort shit out when you need me to,” he said quietly, “and I’ll come back when I can and you guys can always come see me… but no, I can’t run shit like that anymore.”

Joey nodded slowly. “It’s going to be weird not having you here and handling everything,” he said sadly.

Mickey sighed and looked down at his hands. “Yeah, I know.”

“We’ll be okay though!” Iggy boomed and slapped Joey playfully upside the back of the head. “Shit, we’re kinda dumb, but we’re not that bad. We’ll work it out, because we’re strong, independent women who don’t need no man” he said, making Joey snort out loud. Iggy then kicked Mickey under the table, “we’ll be alright,” he assured his little brother, “and you’ll be fine too. You know whatever happens or wherever you are, we still have your back. At the end of the day, it’s just going to be the Milkoviches and the roaches, right?”

“Milkoviches and the roaches,” Mickey grinned and raised his beer, and his brothers did the same.

* * *

 

“I’ve been meaning to ask what’s with Grizzly Adams over there,” Alex asked Ian as they sat at the picnic table watching Mickey, Dre and Mandy play around. They were about three hours outside of Chicago, roughly halfway to Minneapolis—Ian and Mickey’s first major stop. It was time for the couple to continue while the others turned back.

“What, you mean the beard?” Ian said, smiling affectionately as he glanced over at Mickey. “Yeah, he’s not getting rid of it until we’re well across the border. It’s actually growing on me a little.”

“Even though it’s not actually growing on him at all?” Alex teased, making Ian laugh before a brief silence fell between them. Alex reached across the narrow table and punched Ian’s arm before taking his hand in hers. “Dude, I can’t believe you’re really doing this. I made one, tiny, reasonable suggestion—fuck a guy you’re actually hot for—that’s it! And what do you do? You fall for the first freaking one and run away with him to goddamned Canada?!”

“No one can ever accuse me of half-assing anything,” Ian grinned, “plus you give really good advice.”

“I need to shut up forever,” Alex sighed and looked over to where Mickey, Mandy and Dre were chatting by the Mustang. “So you’re seriously leaving me for that guy?” she mourned, “who am I going to get wasted with on two puffs of weed? Who’s going to talk me down off ledges, and defend me from the assholes of the world?!”

“I’ll still do all of that,” Ian said, squeezing her hand, “it just might take me a little longer to physically get here. In that case, Dre can hold down the fort until the real Calvary comes.”

“Whatever, you’re still a jerk. This is a blatant violation of the bros before hoes code and you know it.”

“Sorry,” Ian smiled softly at her as she exhaled noisily.

“Have I ever told you that it is complete and utter folly to even date a mobster, let alone to drop everything and run off with him?”

“On numerous occasions,” Ian replied, “but I don’t have to listen to you because my guy has retired from his life of crime and yours is trying to build an empire.”

“Damn it, I knew you’d throw that in my face. I’ve lost my moral authority forever,” she said with a dramatic sigh before looking steadily at Ian. “You’re sure about this, right? This is really what you want to do?” she asked and smiled when he nodded. “Ah well, I’m going to have to tell Alan goodbye for you. He thinks we’re sociopaths, but he’s still going to be devastated.”

Ian looked at her askance, completely confused. “Who’s Alan?”

“Oh fuck you, Ian.”

* * *

 

Across the small park, the remainder of the group were also deeply engrossed in conversation.

“Canada, huh?” Dre said thoughtfully as he sipped his beer, “what do you think the gay scene is even like in Canada?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey shrugged, “lots of bears?”

Dre snorted beer up his nose, laughing, while Mandy rolled her eyes at the two, giggling idiots.

“You two are morons,” she told them, “I’m heading over to the smarter people.”

“You’re going to be walking for a long time,” Mickey called after her and waited until she was well out of earshot before turning to his friend. “So are you going to tell me what I need to know or what?”

“I don’t know if I want to help you,” Dre said haughtily, “whole thing feels kinda racist to me.”

“How the hell is it racist, jackass?”

“A year ago, you’d think it would kill you to suck a brother’s dick,” Dre began before adopting a falsetto, “‘ew, Dre, but I don’t to do that; it’s so nasty!’ and ‘do I have to, it’s so demeaning!’ and ‘are you tired of this yet, because I am. Are you close yet; my jaws hurt!’”

Mickey scratched his cheek, amused. “That is a most excellent impression of me, and I definitely said all those things.”

“So I might be paraphrasing a little, but the spirit is the same! Now you’re munching on Cracker Barrel over there and all of a sudden your middle name is Hoover and you want to know how to get down? Well I don’t think I want to help you with tips!” Dre sniffed.

“I don’t need help with tips though,” Mickey said frankly, “I good with the tip; it’s the whole thing I tend to struggle with,” he said innocently while indicating Ian’s size with his hands.

“Bitch—” Dre burst out laughing and looked around for a stick or a rock with which to beat his idiot friend while Mickey ran off.

 When Mickey was assured of his safety, he eventually returned to Dre’s side. “Dre, come on. I think I’m pretty good at it, but I need to be amazing in case Canada goes belly-up and I need to distract him for a few days.

“Look, the rules of deep-throating are pretty much the same as learning to scuba dive: relax, start slow, don’t panic if things get weird and try to remember how you’re supposed to breathe…”

* * *

 

“What are those idiots doing?” Mandy asked as they watched Dre and Mickey curiously flail and pantomime in the distance.

“Playing massive air trombones?” Alex hazarded as she squinted at the pair. “Jesus, do you remember when we thought they were all mysterious and menacing all the damn time?”

“That’s how they get you,” Ian said, “by the time they show you the total dork within, it’s too late.”

“Suckers,” Mandy muttered under her breath and stole Ian’s potato chips.

* * *

 

There was no more delaying the inevitable. Dre’s and Mandy’s phones were already buzzing with problems to be solved, Alex had a shift that evening, and if Ian and Mickey wanted to make it into Minneapolis before nightfall, they had to leave. The small group congregated between the two cars and prepared to say their goodbyes. Dre swept Mickey up into a bear hug just as Ian did the same to Alex.

“It’s going to be beautiful, baby,” Dre told his friend before releasing him, “believe that.”

Alex was expressing a similar sentiment to her friend. “It’s going to be okay,” she told Ian. “Just take care of each other, and call me every day.” She gave Ian another tight squeeze before slowly pulling away to give Mickey a quick hug and wish him luck. Dre grinned broadly as he extended his fist for Ian to bump it. Ian exhaled noisily, but smiled as he followed through on the gesture.

“You’re not a bad addition to the family, as in-laws go,” Mandy told Ian as she hugged him goodbye. “I wouldn’t hate it if you stuck around.”

“You’re never getting rid of me,” Ian assured her and set her down so she could tell her brother goodbye.

Mandy paused for a moment before going to hug her brother. She clung to him tightly and buried her face in his neck as he hugged her back fiercely. When he felt her sniffle, he stroked her hair soothingly. “Hey,” he began to say but she shook her head and burrowed closer as she tried to keep herself together.

“I’ll come to see you when you guys settle in and I get a break,” she said, her wobbly voice barely decipherable as it filtered through Mickey’s jacket. “Don’t get some piece of shit studio,” she ordered into her brother’s shoulder. “Get somewhere with at least two bedrooms because I’m not crashing on some gross couch!”

“Yeah, okay,” Mickey agreed, starting to sound wobbly himself.

She finally pulled back, her nose red and eyes shining, but she needed to look her brother in the eye. “Don’t worry about us; just live your life and be happy,” she said, trying desperately not to cry, “but don’t… don’t forget about us either.”  

“You know I won’t,” he promised. “I’m just a little farther away, that’s all.”

She nodded and gave her brother another watery look before she shoved him hard and stomped back over to sniffle behind Dre. Dre reached back and patted her hip as she leaned into his back. “I’ve got her,” he mouthed to Mickey before clearing his throat of the lump forming there. “We got to get going,” he told Mickey, “and you have get gone too, so…” Dre sighed and reached into his pocket and promptly showered Mickey and Ian with a fistful of rice, startling the two.

“What the fuck?!” Mickey sputtered, “is that rice?! Why?!”

“If not now, when?” Dre asked innocently before smacking them with another fistful. “Get the fuck outta here.”

Mickey rolled his eyes as he brushed the grains out of his hair. He then looked over at Ian. “Ready?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Ian said and took Mickey’s hand to rub between his own. Mandy was already quietly crying as she hid behind Dre and Mickey seemed on the verge of tears as well. It seemed best to leave before things got any harder. “Let’s go.”

Alex wrapped her arms around Mandy and led her off to their car as Dre waved another goodbye and followed after them. Ian held Mickey’s hand and in turn led him to the Mustang. Once inside, Ian rubbed Mickey’s thigh soothingly as the latter wiped at his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath.

“Are you ready?” Ian asked him. “We’ll do whatever you want.”

Mickey glanced in the rear-view mirror as the silver SUV behind them started up, readying to leave. He then looked over at Ian. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

With that, Mickey started his car and pulled onto the road. Behind them, heading the opposite way, Dre did the same.

* * *

 

They spent the night in Minneapolis, crashing at a small motel and gearing up for the long drive ahead. They turned in early though Mickey was eventually woken up by Ian kissing his shoulder and pressing against him. He was still mostly asleep, but Mickey couldn’t help but smile into his pillow.

“You’re in the mood for that again?” he said thickly.

“No—well I mean yeah, but no,” Ian answered. “I was just wondering if we should be heading out now.”

Mickey fought to open his eyes and blinked blearily. The room seemed to be in pitch blackness and all was fairly silent. “What time is it?”

“Around two… or three,” Ian mumbled. “Closer to three?”

Mickey checked his phone; it was minutes after one. “Jesus, Ian—”

“I know it’s early,” Ian said quickly, “but I figured if we left here now, by the time we got to the border, we’d—”

“Still be too early,” Mickey finished. “Doesn’t matter if it’s the Mexican border or Canadian; you don’t want to roll up on border security at the ass crack of dawn when they’re all tired, cranky and suspicious. It would be just us and a couple other yahoos, so they’d have nothing but time to hassle us and shake us down. We go midmorning when the traffic is heavier and it’s busier.”

“I guess.”

“Have you slept since we turned in?” Mickey sighed and Ian’s low, incoherent response was all the answer Mickey needed. “Just try to relax, okay? And sleep for fuck’s sake. We have a long ride ahead of us and if you conk out on me ten minutes into it, I’m going to be so pissed at you.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Mickey snorted and reached back to grab Ian’s hand to cradle it to his chest. “Shut up and go to sleep. We’ll get there.”

* * *

 

Despite Mickey’s orders, Ian still wasn’t able to fall asleep, but he was still a bundle of nervous energy when they finally pulled in line at the Canadian Border Services. When they got to the window, they handed over their passports and Ian tried not to appear as if he was holding his breath. The subsequent interview was as anticlimactic as one could hope. Before long, the officer handed back their documents and told Ian to enjoy his stay.

“Welcome back home, Mr. Maguire,” the officer said offhandedly to Mickey as he waved them through. Mickey smiled his thanks and quickly drove off.

Ian glanced back in the rear-view mirror as the massive weight he’d been carrying evaporated with the growing distance between them and the border. They had crossed over, and the relief was so palpable, he was close to shaking. Mickey squeezed his thigh and grinned widely at him, and Ian pulled himself together to smile back. He slumped back in his seat and retrieved Mickey’s Canadian passport.

“Michael Maguire,” Ian sniffed as he flipped through the document, “does that mean we’re both Irish now? But man, whoever did this up is a master, it looks so real!”

“That’s because it is,” Mickey said and Ian stared at him. “Got my lawyer to rush through the passport and some IDs after I got out. It’s next to impossible to go legit on phony paperwork—too many checks and balances.”

Ian was confused. “But then how can these be real? You’re not actually Canadian,” Ian pointed out and Mickey’s fidgety shrug and shuffle had him blinking. “I mean, right?”

Mickey huffed noisily, “I might be… a little bit.”

“What?”

“Look, it’s stupid,” Mickey sighed. “When my mom was pregnant with me, my dad had the bright idea to make a last minute drug run over here—stock up on a bunch of pills to sell so they’d have some cash for when I showed up. He figured he’d take my mom along because the way he saw it, they wouldn’t hassle a heavily pregnant woman who’s just on a last holiday before her kid drops.”

“Oh. My. God,” Ian said as the truth dawned on him.

“Mom went into labour halfway into the run, so…” Mickey shrugged, “I was registered here as Michael Maguire because of the fake IDs they had on them. I was only here for like a minute though!” Mickey said defensively as Ian’s mouth opened in either delight or horror—Mickey wasn’t quite sure. “Like two days later, we were back in the States and my dad got it all straightened out! So…”

“You’re Canadian!” Ian accused gleefully.

“I’m not fucking—did you not hear a word I just said?!”

“Oh my god, oOoh my god!” Ian laughed, “I can’t fucking believe this! You’re a goddamned Canuck! How could you not tell me this?!”

“Because it didn’t fucking matter, I’m American and a Milkovich, and all you were going to do was make fun of me!”

“Is this why you kept driving north all the time?!” Ian could not stop laughing. “Was it just instinct? Were you just trying to get home?! You were just returning to your birthplace like the noble Canada goose?”

“I knew this would happen. I fucking knew—I am going to throw you out of this car and you’re going to walk your ass to Toronto!”

Ian was unabashed and unrepentant. “God, it explains so much,” he mused out loud. “You always have been weirdly polite and you are definitely nicer than your average mobbed up pimp. All this time I thought I was fucking Mickey Milkovich—slowly reforming gangster, when in actuality, I was making sweet, sweet, love to Michael Maguire—definite Canadian.”

“Ian, I swear to god…”

“I bet you’d look hot in a Mountie uniform,” Ian said, “only Canadians get to be Mounties, right? I’d get to mount a Mountie! It’d be ‘inceptionally’ awesome!”

“Ugh, whatever,” Mickey grumbled and Ian looked at him closely.

“What, are you seriously getting pissy about this?” Ian asked, flabbergasted. “You’ve been making Walking Dead jokes since the moment you got back, but I can’t tease you a little bit for being actually and truly Canadian?!”

“I’m not fucking Canadian, alright?! And I’m not Michael Maguire—not really. Just… it’s fucking stupid. I’m American and a Milkovich!”

Ian sighed and took Mickey’s hand. “Mickey, of course you are. You’re as American as any third generation Ukranian-American who was actually born in Canada can be—which, consequently, is pretty fricking American. And I’d never say you’re not a Milkovich. Alright, I get it a little bit. You’re moving far away and you’re all sensitive and scared about being estranged, but seriously,” he said as he kissed Mickey’s knuckles, “this is pretty fucking funny, and I owe you a fuckton for all those undead jokes.”

Mickey glanced over at Ian and sighed as he unruffled his feathers. Ian was probably right; he was being sensitive about his identity and displacement. “Fine, whatever,” he said and Ian’s sunny grin went a long way in making him feel better as the nervous tension slowly left him.

“Besides, this is good to know. All this time I was fucking you like you were American, but now I know I can also fuck you like you’re Canadian.”

It was a blatant trap and Mickey knew he was going to regret giving any encouragement at all to the now maniacally grinning asshole next to him. But the trap was set, Mickey had already swallowed the bait and he knew he had to play his part. Mickey sighed heavily and resigned himself to his fate. “How do you fuck a Canadian, Ian?”

“Very, very nicely, naturally,” Ian responded gleefully and Mickey executed a full body eye-roll in a way only he could. “Nah, but I’ll show when we get to our motel.”

As the border shrank in the distance, Ian’s spirits soared even while he felt his energy flagging. He reclined his seat a bit and got more comfortable. Mickey looked at him askance.

“What are you doing?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re going to sleep, aren’t you?!” Mickey accused. “What did I say last night?”

“I’m awake and I’m right here,” Ian yawned as he stroked Mickey’s thigh. “Don’t be so cranky, Mickey. Don’t be a cranky Canadian. Be a national treasure, not a cultural anomaly,” he advised before drifting off to sleep, exactly as Mickey predicted.

Mickey turned on his radio and let Ian sleep. It had been a month of anxious, sleepless nights and nightmares, and nearly a year of tension and tiptoeing. The last thing Mickey would begrudge Ian was some dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

Ian woke up long enough to take a few bathroom breaks, stretch his legs, and for Mickey to stuff him with fast food. Admittedly, he knew he wasn’t being the best travel companion at the moment, but it was impossible to fight against the weariness that had crashed down on him. The next time he woke up, he found he had been asleep on Mickey’s shoulder for only god knows how long. He sat up and squinted at the motel sign.

“Where are we?” he asked thickly.

“Somewhere between where we were and where we’re going,” Mickey noted offhandedly and Ian blinked at him.

“What the fuck was that, Socrates? Was that your inner Canadian blossoming, or is that a legit postal code? I don’t know how they do things here.”

“We’re going to crash here for now, Chuckles,” Mickey said, “my ass is tired—and I mean that literally—and it’s hard to drive when I’m worried about you lapsing into a coma. Come on.”

It was already late afternoon and Ian couldn’t believe he’d slept almost the entire day without being on a down swing. He tried to rub the sleep from his face and went to get a room while Mickey retrieved a few things from the car. When they finally made it to their room, the décor—which consisted of a print that Ian would describe as psychedelic paisley—woke them both up considerably.

“Holy shit,” Mickey tittered.

“They made the curtains and the sheets out of the same fabric,” Ian mused. “I can’t believe there’s a print out there that makes your Hawaiian shirts look tame.”

“Fuck you, I look amazing in those shirts and this room is awesome,” Mickey replied. “I might never leave.”

They ate the food they’d taken in with them and Ian conked out again while Mickey showered. When Ian awoke later in the evening, Mickey was sitting up next to him, hoisting his duffle bag onto the bed.

“Hey, the beard is gone,” Ian said happily and grabbed Mickey to toss him down flat on his back. “There he is.”

“Hmm, happy now, huh?” Mickey said as he gazed up at him. “You okay, sleepy-face? I had to check your pulse a few times there.”

“I was just tired. I’m good now.” He shifted away from Mickey so the latter could sit up and watched with keen interest as Mickey reached for the bag once again. “What’s in the magic bag this time?”

Mickey laughed, “I wasn’t aware it was magic.”

“Yeah, every time that bag shows up, it has something new, crazy and different in it,” Ian said. “One time, it was sex toys. Another time, it was a picnic under the stars—”

“The stars weren’t in the bag though.”

“I stand by what I said. Then there was jewellery and gift receipts… what’s in it this time?”

Mickey snorted and pulled out a few articles of clothing and some toiletries, disappointing an expectant Ian. That is until he produced the first stack of cash. Ian’s mouth fell open as Mickey tossed it onto the bed, and then produced another and then another, until there was a small mountain of cash stacked on the bed.

“Mickey, what the fuck?!”

“Severance pay,” Mickey said bluntly, “and hazard pay and travelling allowance… all that shit.”

“This is Sal’s money?” Ian asked as Mickey lit up a cigarette.

“Our money now,” Mickey said as he blew out a plume of smoke. “I told you, if you’re not watching the guy who handles your nickels and dimes…”

Ian reached for one of the stacks and flipped through it. “How much is here?”

“Dunno exactly—a couple hundred thousand?”

“When did you have a chance to do this?” Ian asked dazedly, “I thought we were going to be living off the pawn money.”

Mickey gave him a look that could only be translated as “bless your heart,” and then shook his head. “The first thing Saul taught me about handling the books was to always pay yourself a fair salary. Sal fancied himself a very generous boss, but he didn’t pay us nearly enough for all the shit we did for him. So, after I made sure the higher-ups got their proper kick-ups—you never steal from the boys upstairs—I’d take a little off the top… for services rendered, you know?”

“Sal never had a clue?”

“Seriously, Ian, have you met Sal?” Mickey scoffed, “he was never a nickel and dime guy either. As long as he had cash on hand to party and play Santa, he didn’t give a shit about the books. Plus, I never took that much to raise any flags, although after I met you, I started taking a little more,” he told Ian, smiling sheepishly. “Problem is, I didn’t realize just how much money Sal was snorting and then by the time I got out of the clink that first time, shit was already spiralling. After I beat the assault rap, everything was already falling apart and I realized I might have to run, so I was just straight up looting at the end there. Didn’t matter anyway; all of fraud would go back to Saul and Sal, and I planned to be long gone.”

Mickey set a few of the stacks aside. “That’s your tuition,” he told Ian, “you’re not quitting school on my account and you’re not going to scrounge around for it either.  We’re going to have to sit on most of it for awhile, but when we get settled, we’ll open up a few accounts, work the money into our savings slowly. Really large deposits get negative attention that we don’t need. Also, we gotta take our time with this because it’s not a lot.”

Ian was amused. “On what planet is that—” he said, pointing to the cash pile, “—not a shit ton of money.”

“We need to get a place, we need to buy start-up shit like furniture and whatever, you have school,” Mickey said pointedly, “and I don’t know how long it’s going to take until we’re on our feet, job-wise. So, yeah, we’re taking it easy.”

“Alright, but I was already really looking forward to making it rain,” Ian joked, “can we put it away now though?” He watched as Mickey deftly repacked the duffle bag. “Are we heading out first thing in the morning?”

“No, let’s hang here for a little bit,” Mickey said. He cleared the bed and stretched out next to Ian. “We’re both tired and you’ve been through it lately. Let’s take a little breather before we head into the next phase.”

“Yeah,” Ian nodded and shifted closer to Mickey. “I’d like that.”

* * *

 

A week later, Mickey pulled into the parking lot of the restoration garage Tommy told him to find. Mickey leaned over his steering wheel and stared, wishing at the moment that he had taken Ian with him for moral support. The garage was huge and sleek, dwarfing Sal’s set up and making Mickey feel as if he was shrinking already. He spotted a mechanic wandering outside for a coffee break and Mickey got out of the car, determined to talk to someone before he lost his nerve completely.

“Hey,” he greeted the mechanic, a young, slight, Indian man who stared inquisitively.

“Hi,” the man answered even as his gaze slid past Mickey to his parked car. “Nice Mustang,” he said, nodding to the car, “bringing her in?”

“Ah no, I’m actually supposed to see Mr. Papageorgiou about a job?”

“Ooh, that’s different then,” the guy said, flashing a wide smile. “Name’s Raj—electrical and electronics. You’re applying as a mechanic?” he asked and Mickey nodded.

“Um, listen, I don’t really have like formal résumé or anything like that,” Mickey said nervously, feeling more ridiculous by the minute. “Should I get one or…?”

“Honestly, I think you might have driven it here if you did any of the work on that. Look, hang on, he’s here. Stay out here and I’ll go get him.”

Before Mickey could say another word, Raj had run off, disappearing into the building and leaving Mickey alone outside. From where he stood, he could see glimpses of the operation inside and the shell of a ’55 Austin-Healey 100 just calling to him. His attention was immediately pulled by Mr. Papageorgiou, who blew out of the garage like a hurricane. Andres Papageorgiou was a short, swarthy, barrel-chested man, with a voice and presence so booming, Mickey found himself taking a step back.

“You’re the one Tommy sent me?!” Andres blared, dark brown eyes intense and burning into Mickey. Before the blown over young man could sputter up an answer, Andres was marching past him to the waiting Mustang. “A ’67 900S Shelby Mustang,” he declared as Mickey jogged over to him. Andres slowly circled the car like a hunter stalking his prey. “Goddamned beautiful—not the rarest of the classics, mind you!” he said suddenly, rounding on Mickey, “but still, done right and there’s nothing better. You mind?” he asked Mickey, dropping to his knees to inspect the undercarriage, again before Mickey could say a word. “I’m mostly about the Italians myself,” he yelled, producing a small, but powerful flashlight from his pocket to sweep the underside. “Ferraris, Lancias, Maseratis, they’re the ones I mostly collect.” He got to his feet, nodding with satisfaction. “But there’s something undeniable about classic, American muscle, isn’t there? The power, the kind of sneering virility… You restored this?” he demanded.

It took Mickey a moment to register that he was being allowed a chance to get a word in edgewise. “Yeah, got her for next to nothing from a graveyard,” Mickey answered and took out his phone to find the pictures. Like any proud father, a growing series of pictures outlined every step of Mickey’s progress with his babies. “Sourced all the parts, rebuilt it… did everything except for some of the electrical and the finishing.”

Andres was quiet as he flicked through the pictures. He eventually handed back the phone. “Show me how she runs,” he said abruptly and parked himself in Mickey’s passenger seat. Mickey stood blinking for a moment, but then quickly got into the car and pulled out of the lot.

“This is nice,” he murmured as his fingers roved over the panel and his eyes took in the detailing in the car. “You modernized her a bit though,” he noted, nodding to the stereo system and Bluetooth set-up.

“Yeah, I don’t exactly have a lot of cassettes lying around.”

“That’s fine; it’s not a criticism,” Andres said, “at the end of the day, cars are for your comfort and enjoyment. We focus mostly on faithful restorations, but we do a fair amount of upgrading and modernizing as well. Turn up here on the right; you can open her up.”

Before long, they were back in the parking lot and Andres was laughing to himself. He fell quiet and appeared to mull Mickey over. “You built this car?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded.

“And what you did with this car, the skill and attention to detail, you’ll do it for me and my clients?”

“That’s why I’m here…”

Andreas ran his hand over the dashboard. “Tommy called me and told me you were coming up—wouldn’t stop singing your praises. He says you’ve got a way to go and you’re pretty rough around the edges, but that you were something special,” he gave Mickey a sidelong glance. “Not even a goddamned résumé, hmm? Kids these days,” Andres snorted and rubbed a hand through his black, curly hair. He was in his fifties, but already felt ancient. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Mickey, Mr. Papageorgiou.”

“Call me Andres. You’re on probation, Mickey, but welcome to Papa’s Automotive Restoration.”

* * *

 

Andres led him inside to meet some of the crew, pointing out some of the special projects underway. Mickey followed his new boss into his office, where there was a tall, thin man with sandy blond hair, working at Andres’ desk. The man appeared to be in his early thirties, and his open, honest face meant Mickey had to fight the urge to steal his lunch money.

“This is Brian,” Andres trumpeted, “Brian, this is Mickey, the one Tommy was telling us about. Brian is my operations manager—my right hand,” Andres told Mickey, “he pretty much runs the shop because I’m not here sixty percent of the time,” he continued, drowning out Brian’s warm greeting as the latter gathered forms for Mickey to fill out.

“You drove all the way here from Chicago?” Brian managed to say, “have you found a place yet?”

“Yeah, we took a few days to drive up. We haven’t gotten a lead on a place yet though; just crashing at a motel for the time being.”

“‘We?’ Someone with you?” Brian asked casually and Mickey’s mouth went dry.

“Uh, yeah, it’s, ah, just me and my boyfriend,” he mumbled softly and wiped his suddenly damp palms against his jeans.

Andreas frowned, “well that’s no good,” he said, making Mickey’s stomach drop. “I spend half my time in hotels. Hotel rooms are not home; you need a proper base of operations,” Andreas roared, “one of the knuckleheads out there must have a lead on a place.” With that, Andres marched out of the office and started bellowing about like a wounded animal. From what Mickey could see, none of the workers within earshot seemed particularly bothered.

“You’ll get used to it,” Brian said comfortingly, smiling at Mickey’s bewilderment. “He’s the greatest guy; just a little forceful and, well, loud.”

“I can handle loud,” Mickey said and smiled back as he relaxed a bit. He could handle a lot of things.

* * *

 

Andres had managed to wrangle a few leads for an apartment. The most appealing prospect had come from one of the mechanics, a young woman whose building had some new vacancies. Ian’s eyes were glued to the picturesque lake as they drove past. The GPS warned that they would reach their destination soon and Ian crossed his fingers that the apartment would have a lake view. Said lake was the first thing they saw through the huge windows when the manager led them inside. Ian’s mind was instantly made up, but he was under strict orders to “play it cool.”

The manager was dry and succinct as she gave them the short tour. It was a large, airy space: two bedrooms and bathrooms, and it became clear that the manager assumed the apartment could sell itself since she was making no attempt to play up its charms. “So?” she asked abruptly after she’d finished running through the amenities.

“Can we talk for a sec?” Mickey asked her. The woman simply shrugged and retreated to a corner to check her phone while Ian and Mickey went into what would be the master bedroom. What happened next was a completely wordless conversation. Mickey raised an eyebrow in question to which Ian pointed out the window and silently screamed. It was settled then. “We’ll take it,” Mickey said when they stepped out of the room.

“Great,” the woman yawned, “come down to the office when you’re ready.”

The door clicking shut behind her was Ian’s cue to tackle Mickey to the floor. “We have a place!”

“We have no furniture,” Mickey pointed out, though he was grinning up at Ian.

“But we have a place, with a view! Did I play it cool?”

“Oh god yeah,” Mickey said, nodding solemnly. “I’ve never seen anyone play it cooler.”

“I sense some sarcasm there, but I don’t give a shit,” Ian said and slipped his hand under the layers of Mickey’s clothes to stroke his side. “Let’s stay here for a while.”

“Yeah… okay.”

* * *

 

_Two years later_

It felt like forever since Ian had touched him. Mickey squirmed with anticipation and impatience as he lay straddling the body pillow, bound and blindfolded as he remained on pornographic display. “Ian…?” he rasped.

“I’m right here,” Ian responded, the voice coming from somewhere by Mickey’s feet. Ian ran his hand up Mickey’s leg before stroking his thigh and squeezing his ass. “Didn’t mean to go quiet on you… Or are you telling me to hurry up?”

“No,” Mickey murmured. He knew better than that by now, though occasionally Ian needed to be reminded that Mickey wasn’t there for display purposes only.

“Just getting something ready,” Ian assured and purposely let the familiar string of metal beads clack against each other.

Mickey’s response to the sound was immediate and visceral. His mouth went dry and his toes curled, and when he felt Ian shifting to settle behind him, he couldn’t help the way his heart raced. Of course, Ian had every intention of taking his time. He checked the soft cuffs that bound Mickey’s hands behind his back.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” Mickey answered and tamped down the urge to tell Ian to get on him. He wasn’t about to readily admit it, but he lived for that unknown moment when Ian might abruptly change gears from soft, reverent caresses and sweetly murmured words to suddenly being everywhere, with Ian’s hands, mouth and cock being hot and demanding as they broke Mickey apart. It was a work in progress, but Mickey was surely learning that patience had its rewards. As it was, Ian clearly wasn’t ready to change gears just yet.

“You’re perfect,” Ian’s voice rumbled through Mickey, increasing his need. Ian palmed his ass with both hands, fondling and opening him further. “Did I ever tell you how I feel about your ass?”

Mickey burst out laughing in spite of his pressing arousal. “No, I don’t think you’ve ever said.”

“Really? Sounds like kind of an oversight on my part.”

“Kinda figured you were only kind of so-so on it, to be honest.”

“Nooo, I happen to think your ass is the eighth wonder of the World; eighth and ninth if we’re going by individual butt cheeks.”

Mickey laughed again. “Which one’s eighth and which one is ninth?”

“Numbered for convenience not for significance, or they damn sure wouldn’t be all the way down at eighth.”

“Yeah, well I’m flattered, but I don’t think my ass has much global appeal.”

“Really? Because I have a lot of photos of you I could take into the forums. Good money says that the Hanging Gardens of Babylon have got nothing on Mickey’s hanging ball—”

“Ian!”

It was Ian’s turn to burst out laughing. “You’re so easy to scandalize. You should see how red your shoulders get.” Ian leaned down and planted a kiss on the small of Mickey’s back and Mickey didn’t miss the opportunity to unclench his fists and touch Ian in spite of his restraints. When Ian moved lower to kiss down to the top of his thighs, Mickey used his knuckles to rub through Ian’s hair. “Cheating,” Ian said as he sat up. “I think you were made for me,” Ian said, “I know I’ve told you that.”

“A little arrogant on your part seeing as how I was born first.”

“Never said I wasn’t made for you too, did I? Don’t be pedantic. Now what’s your magic number again?”

Mickey gasped at the feel of the lubricated metal ball pressing against him. He sucked in his lower lip and bit down as Ian slowly pushed it inside. The heat of Ian’s hand grasping his left thigh contrasted with the cool of the beads in a way that made him dizzy, as hyper focused as he was on the tactile. He moaned as Ian pushed in the second ball, then the third, only to slowly withdraw it partway. Mickey thrust against the pillow as Ian teased him by leisurely toying with the ball until he let it sink inside Mickey. Soon, Mickey was at his limit.

“Good?” Ian murmured as he lay next to Mickey while he adjusted to the feel of the beads inside him.

“Very,” Mickey sighed and his breath hitched as Ian pressed closer to him and ran his hand down the length of his body, before taking hold of the ring at the end of the string of beads and gently tugging. “Fuck,” Mickey panted into the pillow as Ian pulled the first bead free. Ian coaxed his head back and pressed soft kisses to Mickey’s shoulders, back and neck as Ian half lay on top of him. Ian whispered hotly in Mickey’s ear as he tugged the next bead loose.

Mickey cried out into the quiet of the room and Ian paused to grope his balls and massage his perineum. He was hot; his body already covered in a fine sheen of sweat and Ian pressing against him was driving him mad. Ian began pulling on the beads again, a little faster and more insistently as he told Mickey how beautiful he was, how amazing—and reminded him just how completely and irrevocably Mickey belonged to only him.

Mickey rutted against the pillow as Ian smoothly withdrew the string of beads. He yelled Ian’s name as the last bead popped out and Ian bit hard into his shoulder. Mickey came half-sobbing as his orgasm overtook him. He slumped against the pillow, panting as Ian soothed him.

“Fuck,” he mumbled into the pillow.

“You came?”

“Fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Ian assured him and patted him affectionately on the ass. “You can’t help how good I am.”

“Ah, fuck you,” Mickey laughed and wriggled backwards to the edge of the pillow when Ian grabbed his hips.  “Can we ditch the towel?” he asked, referring to the towel between him and the body pillow. The soft fibres which had felt like heaven to his aching cock before he came would feel like agony now if he rubbed against it. Ian tossed the towel and helped Mickey get comfortable again before pushing into him. Mickey bit his lip and stifled his moan into the pillow.

“You know I want to hear you,” Ian said, “I know you’re only doing that shit so I’ll pull your hair.”

“And yet you haven’t done it yet,” Mickey retorted and gasped out a laugh and groan when Ian complied by yanking his head back.

“Fucking mouthy,” Ian huffed as he began to thrust deeply in Mickey.

“You love it though,” Mickey managed to pant out before a thrust against his prostate put an end to all thinking capabilities. Not that Ian would argue that point; he definitely loved it.

The sounds of their lovemaking filled the quiet room; Mickey’s answering moans to Ian’s grunts, and the slap of their bodies against each other. Ian closed his eyes and let his head loll back as he lost himself in Mickey’s embracing heat. He kept one hand in Mickey’s hair and the other on Mickey’s hip as he rocked faster until Mickey was clenching around him, and he was coming with a shout.

Mickey squinted against the light when Ian slipped off his blindfold and sighed with relief as Ian undid his cuffs. “Good?” Ian asked him as he massaged Mickey’s wrists and shoulders, and Mickey waved him off so he could shove the body pillow off the bed and roll onto his back.

“Very,” he told Ian and pulled Ian down on top of him so he could finally get the kiss he’d been starving for.

* * *

 

The next morning, Ian ate his cereal as he sat at the kitchen table and watched Jaime struggle to include gummy bears and marinara sauce in a cohesive, palatable dinner. Ian laughed at the video as Jaime glared at the food, and then glared at his kids while the two sat at the kitchen table, smiling angelically at their dad.

“I can’t believe you’re making money doing this shit,” Ian laughed to himself and scrolled through the side panel of Jaime’s other videos for something he could make that evening.

“IAN!” Mickey bellowed from the bathroom and Ian almost swallowed his spoon. A second later, Mickey was storming out to him. “What the fuck is this?!” Mickey demanded and pointed to his own neck above the collar of his white T-shirt.

Ian didn’t have to look hard to see the wide, purplish bruise covering the side of Mickey’s neck. “Um… a rash?” he offered pathetically.

Shockingly, Mickey was unconvinced. “Unless I’m starting to develop a physical reaction to your bullshit, this ain’t no fucking rash! What did I say about doing this shit when you know I have to go to work, Ian?!”

“Ah, not to?”

“And yet—”

“I don’t even remember doing that, I swear to god!” Ian quickly defended himself. “I mean, yes, obviously I did it,” he added when Mickey’s eyes narrowed, “but it wasn’t a conscious thing! You know I wouldn’t! Look, I can fix it—”

“No, fuck you, you’re cut off!” Mickey said and left Ian sputtering as he stomped to the door. “How the fuck am I supposed to talk to customers looking like I’m someone’s goddamned chew toy?!” He went a few doors down the passageway and rang the doorbell. Amelia, a fellow mechanic from Papa’s, answered her door.

“Is it time to go already?!” she exclaimed, checking her wrist for the watch she hadn’t put on yet. “I know you’re eager to get back to work on the Healey but it’s—” she trailed off as Mickey wordlessly pointed to his neck. When she surmised the situation, she burst out laughing. “Nice one, Ian!” she called out to her neighbour who was guiltily peeping from his door. She laughed again at how quickly Ian yanked his head back when Mickey turned to glare. “Yeah, I can help you with that,” she said and ushered Mickey inside and to her bathroom.

“Maybe Ian’s a vampire,” Sandy, Amelia’s roommate, said thoughtfully as she watched Amelia apply concealer. “Ooh, maybe he’s a kind of Volturi!”

“Vol-what?” Mickey asked.

“Ugh, please don’t ask and encourage her,” Amelia snorted, “life’s hard enough living in the Twilight Zone.” She stepped back and assessed her handiwork. “Ok, that should hold until the sweat and grease gets ya.”

“Thanks… I’m leaving in half an hour, so be ready.”

He returned to his apartment where Ian was waiting at the table, puppy eyes out in full force. Mickey simply took the box of cereal and retreated to the opposite end of the table, well out of reach.

“I could make you some breakfast maybe?” Ian offered and Mickey only stared at him balefully. “Jaime posted this morning,” he continued, trying another tack. “It’s another kid challenge one. Jayne suggested gummy bears and JJ wanted marinara sauce. He still hasn’t figured out what to make yet…” he told Mickey who remained unmoved. “I didn’t do it on purpose! Do you even remember me doing that?”

“You do a lot of shit,” Mickey murmured, his face warming a little as he mentally scrolled through the previous night. “You’re fucking distracting and I can’t keep track of everything your dumb ass does, but you know what the rules are!” he said firmly and left the table to finish getting ready without another word. Soon, he was stomping towards the door again, leaving a dejected looking Ian poking listlessly at his soggy cereal.

“Have a good day,” Ian called after him as Mickey clicked the door shut.

Amelia was stepping out of her apartment and Mickey was halfway to her when he let out a sudden growl of aggravation and returned to his apartment. He opened the door and glared at a wide-eyed Ian for a moment before sighing loudly and walking over to the table to kiss Ian goodbye.

“Don’t have a shitty day,” he ordered, “but don’t have the greatest one either because I am still very fucking pissed off!”

Ian nodded obediently and Mickey was gone again, only to return a few seconds later. “Fine, you can have a great day!” he huffed and left Ian smiling softly after him. “Shut up!” he said to Amelia who only kept smirking knowingly as she trotted after him.

* * *

 

Amelia was yelling for him, so Mickey stepped away from the Austin-Healey to make his way to her. They only had a few months left until the Austin’s showing in Pebble Beach and the team assigned was consumed with getting it ready in time. All the same, Amelia was not one to be ignored.

“Look at this shit,” she growled as Mickey slid under the car. “Are you seeing this shit?!”

Mickey swept the undercarriage with his flashlight and let out a low whistle. The owner had mentioned a prior repair job before coming in to their shop, but apparently the only tool used had been a soldering iron. “What the fuck?”

“He just wanted us to improve the suspension and make the ride a little easier,” Amelia raged, “no fucking wonder the ride is so jacked up!”

Mickey slid out from under the car and shook his head. “How long ago was this hack job?”

“Maybe a year he said.”

“Shit, I’m surprised he managed to get it in here. You’re going to have to call him in and explain the situation, because this car is barely roadworthy and it’s going to be a big job.”

“But the budget we discussed—”

“Is out the window now,” Mickey finished, “that’s not on us and it’s not his fault, but if he wants to drive his car safely then this all has to be fixed. You think he’ll be willing?”

“Howard really seems to love this car. I think he’ll pay but to drop all that money when you weren’t planning to—”

“Good lord, man, what the hell happened to you?!” Mark, another co-worker, asked him as he stared at Mickey’s neck. “Is that Ebola, is that what Ebola looks like?”

“Sweat and grease got to ya,” Amelia still whispered a warning to him despite the idiot yelling in his ear.

“That’s not Ebola, you idiot, he just got lucky,” Raj rolled his eyes before also inspecting Mickey closely, “then again, I’m pretty sure the start of the zombie plague looks a lot like that…”

Soon a group had gathered and there began a vigorous debate about sex, survival and the impending zombie apocalypse. After a few minutes, Mickey checked his watch and figured that Andres would be blasting in at any moment, so he whistled sharply and cut through the hubbub. “Don’t you people have shit to do?” Mickey said after the group fell silent, “get back to work,” he told them and the group dispersed, heading back to their various workstations.

True to form, within another few minutes, Andres was there, making stops and consultations in every sector. For the second time within the hour, someone was yelling for Mickey.

“Shit,” Mickey said after Andres yelled for him and disappeared into his office. He touched his neck gingerly, “is it obvious?” he asked Amelia who then deliberately wiped her blackened, greasy fingers over the hickey.

“Not anymore,” she said and skipped off.

Mickey had just come up behind Andres when the man turned around howling for him again.

“Jesus, I’m right here,” Mickey chastised. “Always so goddamned noisy; why do you have to be yelling all the time?!”

“Well, don’t sneak up on people,” Andres grumbled.

Since Hurricane Andres had calmed, Mickey finally noticed that Brian was already in the room. It immediately made Mickey nervous. Why would his boss and operations manager need to see him? It only got worse when Andres nodded to Brian. Andres didn’t defer to anyone else for shit unless something major was happening.

“Marnie’s pregnant,” Brian said happily and Mickey took a moment to register the magnitude of what the man had just said.

“Oh my god, holy shit, congratulations!” Mickey said, completely shocked, “fuck!”

“Almost the same thing I said,” Brian laughed as Mickey patted him on the back, “she’s actually around three months along, but we didn’t want to say anything until we felt we were out of the woods a bit, you know?” he continued with a sad smile, “it’s still early days yet, but we’re cautiously optimistic.”

Mickey nodded his understanding. The hardships Brian and his wife had had to conceive were well known within the family of the garage. They had been trying since well before Mickey had shown up, and it was impossible not to get sucked into their struggle. It was amazing to know that after all that heartbreak and disappointment, that there could be a happy ending.

“Shit, man, that’s really great. We’ve got to celebrate!” Mickey nodded, “Is Marnie good to come out? She must be losing her mind.”

“Best understatement I’ve ever heard,” Brian said, “actually, she’s a bundle of energy and nerves right now. She’s eager to get out to Fort Nelson.”

“Fort Nelson?”

“Yeah, her family is out there,” Brian nodded, “after everything we’ve gone through… it was pretty tough for her being away from her family. She wants their help getting through the pregnancy and we feel it’s not a bad place to raise a kid too.”

Mickey nodded politely, even though Fort Nelson sounded like the middle of nowhere. “When do you guys want to go?”

“I’ve agreed to stay until the end of the month.”

It was only then it truly hit Mickey what was being revealed there. “So wait… you’re leaving?”

“Of course he’s leaving; that is what he just said!” Andreas finally chimed in. “My right hand is leaving to go all the way to Bumblefuck, British Columbia,” he continued and Brian rolled his eyes good naturedly. “—which means that I would be without a right hand, which is just absolute nonsense! So you do it!” he said to Mickey, who could only gape at him.

Brian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Andres, we went over this. You have to ask first; you can’t just go around imperiously demanding people do things,” he sighed and ignored Andres’ own massive eye roll.

“I, uh, I don’t know about this,” Mickey began but Brian stopped him.

“It’s really not much different from what you’re doing now. You already help us run this place and Lord knows they scramble for you a lot faster than they do for me,” Brian told him. “There are some things you’d have to learn, like dealing with the concourses and auctions and some of the more high-end clients, but I’d use the rest of this month to bring you up to speed. I have no doubt you’d be great at this.”

“Of course he’ll be,” Andres declared as if it was all a done deal. “Now what’s the status on the Healey?”

* * *

 

Ian grabbed his coat and ducked outside when he saw Mickey was calling. He stepped out into the soft snowfall and quickly answered. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Mickey said, “started snowing where you are yet?”

“Yeah, just.”

“It’s supposed to get serious in a couple hours. Stay put and I’ll come get you after work.”

“Even though you’re mad at me?” Ian teased.

“Even though I’m mad at you,” Mickey confirmed, “how’s your day going?”

“Not too great, but definitely not crappy. Piya dumped half her workload on me and took off with her girlfriend, I think. If I’m lucky, I’ll see her sometime before Christmas.”

“I still don’t know why you don’t just quit,” Mickey said, “you’re carrying a bunch of slackers and you were wiped during exams. You’re going to be a senior next year and the workload’s going to be insane. It’s not like you have to work because we need the cash. It was covered before we even got here and I’m making good—”

“—money, yes, I know. You just want me barefoot and pregnant at home,” Ian said, “Can we not have this fight again? Mick, I’ve had one job or another since I was three. I feel weird not working and I don’t want you footing the bill for every little thing. I want to add something to the pot, even if it’s peanuts.” He smiled when Mickey sighed at the other end of the line. “Look, I’ve been managing so far, right? Education is a way better fit for me than business anyway, so I’m doing way better. If it gets too hard to handle during senior year, then I’ll give it up, I promise. You know I still need to score brownie points for residency too.”

“Which is also kind of moot because you’re with Michael Maguire—registered Canadian citizen—aren’t you? You’ve accrued all the necessary brownie points.”

“So what, you’re going to marry me?” Ian asked softly as he plucked at his jeans. He could hear Mickey’s own bashful shuffling as well. Nothing turned them into shy, red-faced teenagers faster than the idea of marriage, which had seemed like as pointless as wishing to be a wizard when they were younger, but had now become a more looming possibility with each passing day.

“We’ll do whatever needs to be done, okay?” Mickey mumbled awkwardly and Ian grinned goofily as he sat in the freezing cold. The day one of them finally cracked and proposed was going to be an absolute shit-show. “That’s not why I called,” Mickey said. “Marnie’s pregnant.”

“Seriously? No shit! Like… it finally took?”

“Yeah, and they’re moving to fricking Fort Nelson to have the kid, so Andres said I should take over when Brian leaves.”

“Wait, what? MICKEY!”

“Don’t make a whole thing out of it,” Mickey said, “it’s not a big deal.”

“Oh no, of course” Ian sniffed, “definitely not a big deal, won’t make a thing out of it… Have you met me?!”

At the other end of the line, Mickey laughed a little as Ian whooped and hollered like an over-caffeinated cheerleader and immediately began making plans to celebrate. Mickey was already getting swept up in Ian’s enthusiasm and praise and finally let himself absorb and acknowledge his promotion. Maybe it was kind of a big deal after all.

* * *

 

At the end of Mickey’s first day of flying solo as operations manager, Ian showed up at the garage heavily laden with a ton of coffee and boxes full of Timbits and donuts. The hungry horde of mechanics swiftly descended upon him and relieved him of the food, though one keen mechanic was onto his tricks.

“So this was your big plan to appease us if Mickey bit it on his first day?” Amelia asked him. “You think just because we’re Canadian we can be bought off with a few handfuls of Tim Hortons?!”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Ian said.

“Well you’re right, but the idea is offensive,” Amelia grinned and ran off to stake her claim before it was all done. “Everything went fine by the way!” she yelled over her shoulder.

Mickey stepped out from around a corner to see what all the noise was about. “You brought bribery food?”

“I brought celebration food,” Ian corrected and pulled Mickey by the overalls to kiss him. “You’re still filthy,” Ian pointed out and rubbed at Mickey’s dirty face.

“I still have to work on cars,” Mickey said and was distracted by the chatter from the rear of the garage. “What did you bring, donuts?”

“Relax, I have yours in my backpack. They’ll be your reward for later.”

* * *

 

“So are you white collar or blue collar now?” Ian asked as he spun in Mickey’s chair in his office after the garage had emptied out.

“I don’t know… some kind of unholy union of the two?” Mickey called out from the bathroom as he washed up. He emerged a short while later, “all cleaned up for you.”

“Which was totally unnecessary by the way, but I won’t kick you out of bed,” Ian said and got up so he could pin Mickey against the table. “So how was it today?”

“It was fine; everyone cooperated, things went pretty okay.”

“Hmm, but how was it really?” Ian asked him as he raised a questioning eyebrow and leaned in closely to Mickey’s face.

Mickey cracked, “it was a piece of cake. I can’t believe I thought this would be hard,” he admitted and Ian was delighted, “I could run rings around these jokers all day, every day. There was one jackass who knew Brian was leaving for weeks now, but he still called in all snippy about being uncomfortable with the change. He just wanted a price break… I got him to see my point of view really quick.”

“There he is,” Ian laughed. He knew that after running Sal’s outfit, Andres’ garage would have been a cakewalk for Mickey. Ian never wanted him to lose that special brand of cockiness. He unzipped Mickey’s jeans and slipped his hand inside to grasp Mickey’s cock. “Right now, this should be the only thing that’s hard for you.”

* * *

 

Mickey rested his leg on Ian’s shoulder, gripped his boyfriend’s arm as Ian thrust into him, and wondered if his pants were close by in case he had to scramble off the hardwood table. But then Ian squeezed the base of his cock and started pumping a little faster, and all worries of discovery and mishap disappeared.

“Always sort of wanted to do it on Brian’s desk,” Mickey admitted after he came.

“Not to dispel the fantasy but technically you still haven’t,” Ian told him, “this is your desk.”

“Now who’s being pedantic?”  

As soon as Ian had cleaned up, Mickey pulled on his underwear and jeans and headed straight for Ian’s backpack. “You couldn’t wait until I gave it to you?” Ian tutted as Mickey yanked out the bag of pastries and held it up triumphantly.

“You already gave it to me; now I wanna eat,” Mickey said dryly.

Ian almost burst out laughing. “Idiot,” he sniffed and sat on the floor in the corner of Mickey’s small office and waited for his boyfriend to join him. Mickey sat in his spot between Ian’s legs, got comfortable and commenced snacking.

“You’re always happiest with balls in your mouth, aren’t you?” Ian said as he watched Mickey down a handful of Timbits.

“I like what I like,” Mickey said and reached back to pop a few in Ian’s mouth. “I just realized today that I get to go to Pebble Beach next summer, which means you get to go to Pebble Beach next summer. Maybe the Healey will pick up a prize. It’s shaping up really good.”

“Could I just go like that? It won’t be a problem?”

“Brian told me he took Marnie all the time. I’d get my own room anyway, so in any event the most we’d have to do is pay for your ticket. You have to come so I don’t lose my shit and buy a billion dollar car and wind up having to blow every old, rich, white dude in attendance to cover it.”

“Wow, that’s grim. I guess I’ll just have to suck it up and come with you to California. Quelle horreur,” Ian said and hugged Mickey tightly. “I’m really proud of you though, Mickey.”

Ian could feel the heat of Mickey’s blush. “Come on, Ian.”

“I shouldn’t have to fuck you all the time to tell you sincere shit, so tough it out,” Ian said firmly, “I really am proud of you. You were so worried about how things would turn out and you’ve been making it work since we got here. You’ve been amazing.”

Mickey had turned into a shy puddle. “Well, you have too,” he mumbled inelegantly.

“Yeah, well I’ve already made peace with the fact that I’m completely awesome. You’re the one that still needs a little work.”

* * *

 

_He always knew they would meet again. In a way it was almost a relief, like finally seeing the movie monster he had been baiting his breath for, as the orchestra built to its frightening crescendo. Mickey could release that breath, for Sal had come back for him, just the way Mickey always knew he would someday, somehow. The time had come for the inevitable, terrible reunion._

_Sal was a mess, now a walking grotesquery of odd proportions, twisted limbs, sloughing, rotting skin and a litany of wounds and bruises. Despite the decay and corruption, it was undeniably Sal—so clearly him, in fact, that Mickey couldn’t help the pang he felt, that odd lingering longing for what good there had been. Sal even opened with his usual gregariousness._

_“Jesus, Mick,” Sal wheezed out, “they told me to beware the Ides of March, but no one warned me about fucking August!” Sal said and Mickey snickered. “Them fuckers got me good, but you,” he said to Mickey, wagging his finger as he approached, “you got me best of all, my fucking prince.”_

_Mickey didn’t know what to say to that—wasn’t sure if there was a safe thing he could say. Yet, Sal didn’t seem that sore about it at least. “I did what I had to do, Sal,” he said at last. He tried to say he was sorry, but couldn’t force it out, because in the end, he really wasn’t sorry about the choices he made._

_“We all did what we had to, no skin of my nose,” Sal joked and pointed to the ruined nub on his face. “But we should get out of here before they show.” Sal said and Mickey finally looked around as the featureless void they were in rolled back. It was Sandrini’s and it was that night again, and Big Tony and his boys would be coming soon. “Let’s go home.”_

_Mickey hesitated. “I… I’m not in this life anymore, Sal.”_

_Sal, as ever, was tolerant and patient for the moment. “Kid, we don’t have time for this shit. We gotta get out of here, go home; we’ll sort out whatever it is later.”_

_Mickey looked back where the dark void still lingered at the rear of Sandrini’s. Ian was in there, somewhere, waiting for him along with his entire life. He felt stuck, finding it hard to move in any direction. Soon there were flashes of light—Tony Salerno was there._

_“Mickey, let’s go.”_

_“I can’t, Sal; I can’t,” Mickey said as he slowly backed away. He could hear the car doors opening and the growing whisper of threatening voices. “This isn’t my life anymore.”_

_Sal, as ever, lost his patience with Mickey spectacularly. He rushed Mickey suddenly, catching him by the throat and slamming him into a wall. “You ungrateful little prick!” Sal roared. “You really thought you would get to fuck around and play house all damn day?! This is your fucking life! I fucking own—”_

_Gunfire erupted wildly making everything explode in a shower of splinters and sparks. Sal fell forward, trapping Mickey beneath him. Mickey struggled to shove Sal off as flames sprang up around them, but Sal’s bloated corpse refused to budge. The gunfire wouldn’t stop, even as Tony and the fire crept closer. There was no way out and all Mickey could do was scream._

“Mickey! Mickey!” Ian only just managed to avoid getting clocked as Mickey flailed next to him. He managed to grab Mickey’s arms as Mickey gasped awake. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Mickey, it’s me. I’ve got you.”

Mickey’s eyes darted wildly around the dark room as he slowly surfaced from his nightmare. He focused on Ian’s face as he gasped for breath, and Ian released his hands so he could stroke his face and his chest.

“I’ve got you; you’re okay,” Ian repeated and Mickey eventually calmed. “It’s fine. We’re safe; we’re okay,” Ian said soothingly, “who are you?” he asked and Mickey looked up at him helplessly, already growing abashed at his dream and his reaction.

“Ian, it’s fine,” Mickey said thickly.

“Who are you?” Ian repeated anyway.

“Mickey,” he sighed and sighed again when Ian prompted him further. “Mickey… I’m a mechanic, and I live in Montreal, except not really, because I live in Toronto.”

“You’re the one that giggles at alliteration, dumbass,” Ian said and settled down next to Mickey. “You want to move to Montreal because you need complete accuracy?”

“I’m Mickey, I’m a mechanic and I live in Montreal,” he said appeasingly, and it was embarrassing that it did help him feel better. The whole thing was embarrassing really—night terrors, as if he was fucking five.

At least they were rare; it had been ages since his last one. But when they came, they were so bad it rattled him for days and worried Ian. Maybe the promotion triggered it or something equally dumb. Ian was going to be on him again to resume talking to Dr. Lester. “Post traumatic stress,” she had suggested when they had spoken, and Mickey wasn’t even going to dignify that with a response of any kind. He had been running around with the Mob, not getting his arm blown off in Iraq or Afghanistan. Post traumatic stress was for army vets and accident victims, and besides, for ninety-nine percent of the time he was totally fine.

Still, that one percent was a bit of a doozy. He swallowed his embarrassment to curl into Ian, who wasted no time wrapping himself around Mickey. Ian pulled him close and slid his leg protectively over Mickey’s, while rubbing his back soothingly and pressing soft kisses wherever his lips could reach. Ian kept at it and eventually, Mickey’s breathing deepened and evened out as he went back to sleep. Still, Ian didn’t move for a while in case the nightmare came rushing back.

Mickey seemed out for the count and resting peacefully, and Ian really needed to take a leak. He slowly extricated himself from Mickey and headed into their adjoining bathroom, his ears cocked for any sounds of distress. When he came back out, Mickey remained unmoved, and Ian decided it was safe to pad out softly to the kitchen.

His new prescription gave him dry mouth like he couldn’t believe and more often than not, he’d wake up one or two times a night to sip some water. Sleeping through the night usually meant he got morning breath that could peel paint of walls. Sometimes he wondered how Mickey could stand it. Ian looked into their bedroom as he stood in their kitchen and drank his water.

He didn’t mind the interruption to his sleep as much when he could take a few minutes to watch the moon reflecting off the lake, or take in Mickey sleeping peacefully. “Peacefully” being the operative word. Admittedly, Mickey’s nightmares were relatively few and far between, but they were fucking terrifying when they showed up. And yes, Mickey’s function wasn’t impaired, but Ian could still see the way Mickey would tense sometimes, the way every so often, he’d keep looking over his shoulder, and how anxious he could get about the other shoe dropping.

Mickey could gripe about it all he wanted, but Ian was getting him to talk to Dr. Lester again. He had a new doctor there in Toronto, but it still felt like early days yet and Dr. Lester was the only person he felt he could trust with Mickey. The few chats they’d had on the phone had seemed to help, even while Mickey scoffed at her tentative diagnosis. His boyfriend’s scepticism was a moot point as far as Ian was concerned now; Mickey was going to have to deal with him and his doctor.

Ian washed out the glass and headed back into his bedroom. He tried his best to get into bed without disturbing Mickey, who seemed unperturbed, but still sought Ian out anyway the moment he got back into bed. Ian willingly adjusted to accommodate Mickey’s comfort seeking and hugged him closely again. Ian lay still for a bit and kept a comforting hand on Mickey’s hip while the other slept. He’d watch Mickey for a while until sleep overtook him as well, which would happen soon enough.

Two years had flown by since they’d made their great escape and Ian couldn’t help but marvel at it all sometimes. Once he had thought Mickey would be long gone by now, and that he would have to slink back home to a shattered family, alone and heartbroken. Instead they were here, not just surviving, but flourishing in a world they’d carved out for themselves and making a life together from which neither of them would ever walk away.

Every so often though, like tonight, they were reminded of just how fucked up they truly were and how deeply some of the damage went. But in spite of it, they were going to make it and keep trying; they were going to work through the mess and keep putting their broken pieces together. Because they were Ian, the aspiring teacher, and Mickey, the amazing mechanic, and they had made something beautiful and it was theirs to keep.   

**THE END**


End file.
